When night clothed the castle in its ebony cloak, Clarysa joined Gretchen and her son in the kitchen. The two younger folk played cards or sang. Ghyslain, as it turned out, was an accomplished guitarist. Gretchen frequently sewed, humming along with his tunes.
Froll, a cheerful, laid-back fellow with dark, straight hair and squinty eyes, joined them for a day in between trips for supplies. Clarysa liked the bright bandanas he wore, and the way his belly shook as he laughed. Sometimes, he would smoke a pipe and tell her gypsy tales from far away.
More days passed, and still no sign of Stellan.
One afternoon, Clarysa realized she had been wearing the same dress a few times too many. It had belonged to Patrulha in her younger years. The others probably didn’t care how she looked, but she wanted something nice to wear when Stellan returned. She approached Gretchen about the matter.
“I saw some old clothing in the royal suite,” Gretchen told her. “Patrulha never wanted any of it, but they might suit you. Let’s go see if any of them still hold together.”
They sauntered up a level, and entered a chamber as wide as a field. “Is this where Stellan sleeps?” Clarysa asked, eyeing the once-luxurious mahogany bed. Somehow it had split in two, and was draped in nothing but silky cobwebs.
“Oh, no. He uses one of the servant’s rooms by the kitchen. It’s much warmer there, y’know.”
Gretchen used her candle to light some of the torches ensconced in the walls. “Here we go!”
A huge wardrobe stood to Clarysa’s right. Gretchen pulled the doors open wide. They creaked so loudly Clarysa feared the whole wardrobe might collapse.
Gretchen poked her head inside, nudging aside a rat with her foot as she did so. Clarysa joined her, giddy with anticipation. But rifling through the dusty material only gave her a fierce sneezing fit.
Gretchen chuckled. “I see you’re in quite a rush there.”
After an hour of searching, they finally struck gold–a lacy, off-white gown with wide sleeves. It had been stored more carefully than some of the others, and thus retained its luster. Clarysa tried it on. Much to her delight, it fit perfectly. She wrinkled her nose. “I should clean it first!”
“I’ll help you,” offered Gretchen.
They headed back downstairs.
Clarysa hugged the dress to her chest. “You know, I should like to learn how to cook.”
“Oh, I see! Is that so, hmm?” Gretchen’s voice echoed loudly as they descended the stone staircase.
Clarysa offered a supplicant look. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, of course.”
Gretchen shook her head. “No, of course not!”
And so once her new–old!–dress had been washed and hung up to dry, Clarysa joined Gretchen at the hearth for her first cooking lesson. Her days in the wintry wilderness brightened considerably as she began to feel like a more productive and vital member of the eccentric household. If only Lionel could see her now, what would he say? And Edward–keeper of the royal decorum? The blood vessels in his neck would surely explode!
As for Stellan, what thoughts would he have upon encountering a member of the Aldebaran royalty scrubbing a century’s worth of scum from the walls? Clarysa could scarcely wait to find out!
Chapter 15
“They’re coming!” Gretchen announced in the predawn darkness as soon as Clarysa opened her bedroom door. The woman fingered a handful of gold pieces in the light of her torch. “Stellan sent a messenger ahead, courtesy of your cousin.”
“Lionel!”
Gretchen glowed with excitement. “I’ll be able to cook something decent for once.”
“We can have a feast!” Clarysa clapped her hands and smiled.
Gretchen chuckled. “Hurry and get ready.”
They spent the day preparing a cornucopia of dishes based on ingredients brought by Froll and Ghyslain from the village market. Meat roasted on spits over the fire. Platters overflowed with breads and assorted cheeses. Three kinds of soup warmed in large clay pots and jugs of wine sat on a cart, ready to be rolled out.
Froll set up four long tables in the throne room. The hall blazed with scores of candles.
Clarysa couldn’t resist the urge to keep peeking out the front gate. Stellan had saved her life and helped her people all without hope of reward or political gain. She would do anything for him. Maybe I can be his reward, she thought with a devilish grin.
Come late afternoon, the party was expected any minute. Clarysa wanted to help serve, so the gypsy insisted she wear an apron over her dress while she readied appetizers. Clarysa fingered the coarse material. This was certainly a first.
Gretchen faced the hearth, basting the meat. Clarysa sat at the table cutting oranges. As she reached for the seventh piece, a man with a wild mane of red hair appeared at the doorway. Grinning, he put a finger to his lips for silence. He tiptoed across the room to the hearth. Then he grabbed Gretchen from behind and gave her a loud, rambunctious bear hug.
Gretchen shrieked, arms flailing. As she turned around, Clarysa could see a fierce blush on her cheeks.
“Keep your loutish hands off me, you scurvy rat!” Gretchen beat on him with a large wooden spoon. “Out! Out of my kitchen this instant!”
Clarysa laughed until tears streamed from her eyes. The hefty soldier passed by her table and helped himself to a handful of grapes. “They call me Hunter Red. Nice to meet you, miss! Having a lovely day, are we?”
He threw up an arm in defense as Gretchen drove him on, wielding her spoon like a battle-axe. “Don’t bother her, mister. We know your kind,
