For the first time, Merrigan wondered what those servants did when she didn't need them for days at a time. She rubbed harder at her temples. Such thoughts were just more proof she was slowly losing her mind. Was that part of Clara's curse? Drive her insane, so she spent the remainder of her days huddled in a dark corner somewhere, whimpering and talking to herself?
"I don't suppose there are any books of fables or humorous journals in here?" She gestured at the shelves of books. Judging by the bindings, the dyes in the leather still fairly strong, they had seen little sunlight or use since they had been bought and shelved.
"There might be," Flora said with a little shrug and a glance around the room. Her eyes widened a little. "It must be lovely to be able to read anything you want."
Most likely, Judge Brimble never gave his servants permission to read during their off time. Another reason to dislike him. The King of Avylyn wanted all his people able to read, and Merrigan had admired her father so much for that. He had established libraries in every major town throughout his kingdom. The surest way to protect the people from the lies of seditionists or infiltrators from enemy kingdoms was to enable them to read the laws and proclamations sent throughout the kingdom. Libraries and programs to teach children how to read engendered a sense that their king valued them. Merrigan disagreed with how much her father valued the peasants, but she understood the strategy.
She loved to read. She loved the freedom and the protection that reading offered her. This was just another item on the list of things she disliked about Brimble. Deny his servants the simple joys of reading?
"Are you all right?" Flora asked again, putting the tray down and stepping over to pat Merrigan's arm. "Should I ask Cook for a headache powder for you?"
"No, I'm quite all right. I just have so many thoughts going through my head ..." Merrigan glanced down at the tray. She hadn't realized until now that she hadn't finished her meal. That was foolish. The stew and the apple dumpling were both delicious, and she did adore apple dumplings—despite the whole debacle with the magic apple tree. "Perhaps I should try to eat a little more."
"I could ask Cook to warm it for you, and give you more cream to pour on it," Flora offered, picking up the tray again. She chuckled. "He'd do anything for you, I'd wager."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, it's not that obvious, but Fauna and I both think he's gone sweet on you, just in two days. We heard him talking to the big iron cauldron he uses for heating wash water, asking himself what Mistress Mara would like best to eat. He's never done that before."
"Talked to the cauldron?"
"Oh, he talks to it all the time. Some people think he used to be an enchanter, back about a hundred years ago. There's talk about enchanters that used to live in these parts, but there was a huge war. The losers were swatted like a bunch of snotty little boys, and had their magic taken away." Flora leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "There's even talk that this used to be the castle of one of them, or at least what's left." She giggled. "No, I meant Cook never cared about what any of us would like to eat. We all like him, never fear, and he's rare fun in the evenings when the judge is out. Seneschal is grandfather to Rosco and Oscar, and the three of them play fiddle and pipes and drum, so we have dancing. You'll join us next time we have the house to ourselves, won't you?"
"I'd ... I think I'd like that," Merrigan admitted. How odd, that her heart would race for a few beats, then slow, race, then slow, all during the girl's spurt of babbling. Did it really disturb her—or worse, flatter her—that the one-eyed cook seemed sweet on her? She should be offended. After all, she was Queen of Carlion.
Cook didn't know that, did he? All he saw was the thin, somewhat ragged old woman.
"Would you do me a favor?" she asked, as Flora headed for the door with her meal tray.
"I'll heat up the apple dumpling and bring it right back, don't you worry."
"Besides that. Could you just mention, in Cook's hearing, that I'm a recent widow and still grieving my dear husband? I wouldn't want to insult Cook, you know. Just discourage him, a little. My husband ... well, my world was utterly destroyed when he died."
That much was the absolute truth, and it felt oddly good to say it to someone besides herself. Merrigan found her headache had completely gone as she sat down to resume her work. Perhaps it was the fresh air, since Flora left the door halfway open, or perhaps having an actual conversation with someone. Or perhaps it was the sympathy in the girl's round, pale face.
Sympathy from a serving girl? Welcoming that sympathy? How Merrigan had fallen from her glory days.
She sighed and glanced at the pages in their semi-neat piles at the other end of the long table. "You keep quiet—I'm not complaining, and I'm even a little bit ... well, grateful is too strong a word, but it is nice having someone feeling sorry for me. I'm just stating the facts of the situation, that's all."
Her work went quickly, despite an odd need to look up and make sure the pages were still there in their piles, every dozen stitches or so. Merrigan had half the seams basted together by the time Flora returned with a fresh apple dumpling, a saucer of thickened, sweetened cream to spoon over it, and a little pot of steaming fresh cinnamon tea to go
