“Yes, M’Lady,” the boys chorused from the other side of the kitchen, where they worked on the royal icing at a large wooden table.
If only Mrs. Whipple could see the state of the kitchen now.
Little hands, powdered white up to the elbows, plunged into bowls. Flour billowed about like fluffy clouds, catching the afternoon sun as it streamed through the tall kitchen windows.
A shriek of laughter erupted as Thomas, the freckle-faced boy of nine, launched a spoonful of batter across the room. It landed with a soft splat on Timothy’s nose, who simply blinked and scraped the mess off with a sticky finger and flicked it back into the bowl.
I daenae think that is edible. Good thing this is a trial bake! It may as well be the mudpies the sweet lassies and laddies made in the gardens of Inverhall!
The clatter was relentless, but despite the madness, Elspeth felt at home for the first time since she had left Inverhall. She paused for a moment, leaning against the cold marble counter, and took it all in.
The gleaming kitchen, usually reserved for proper culinary practices under the sharp direction of Arrowfell’s chef, Monsieur Henri, was an absolute battlefield. She looked at the spilled spices, half-filled cake tins, and a dusting of sugar that made every surface look like a winter landscape. The air, thick with the scent of vanilla, butter, and a certain chaotic energy, was alive.
She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined the faces of the children, their cheeks flushed with pride, when they presented their wobbly, slightly lopsided creations at the upcoming event.
The thought made the chaos not just amusing, but also sweet. Sweeter even than the confections they were trying to make. She could only hope that the attendees would concur.
She pushed off the counter and waded back into the fray, her hands reaching for the bowl of royal icing the boys were working on at the other table. With her face smudged with dough, she laughed as Matthew proceeded to dump an entire bag of sugar into a mixing bowl.
“Well, we’d better start over again with a new batch,” she said, glancing back at the recipe. “Good thing this is only a rehearsal! Perhaps I should have listened to Mrs. Whipple when she said to have the staff help, to give ye more proper instruction. But I cannae imagine Monsieur Henri bein’ able to speak to ye slowly enough. Plus, I am as stubborn as a?—”
“As a what, Lady Inverhall?” Hugo asked as he rounded the corner, entering the kitchen with his hands tucked behind his back, looming over the scene.
Upon spotting him, a devilish gleam entered Thomas’s eyes. Elspeth could see the cogs in his mind turn before he threw a handful of flour at him. It landed squarely on Hugo’s nose with all the force of a cannonball.
Elspeth gasped, lifting her hands to her mouth.
Silence filled the room as everyone looked at Hugo, waiting for their cue. Yet, he stood there, still as a statue.
This cannae be real.
Unable to maintain her composure, Elspeth burst into laughter. It was a clear, joyous sound that echoed through the kitchen.
It was the first time in so long that she felt the release only a good, hard belly laugh could bring. It was the kind of laugh that started small and turned into a raucous cackle, which was only amplified by the laughter of the boys.
“I do—I do believe,” Elspeth gasped, trying to catch her breath. “Ye have a bit o’ flour on yer nose, Yer Grace,” she managed between giggles as she approached Hugo.
“I believe you are right, My Lady,” Hugo said, straight-faced. “Does it do anything for my complexion?”
Then, a small smirk formed on his lips, which slowly became a smile, revealing his perfectly white teeth.
Elspeth realized then that in all those weeks, she had never seen it. Not once. It was the most handsome smile she had ever beheld.
Her lips almost parted wide as his smile grew, until she heard the most beautiful sound in the world—his hearty, happy laughter. It was deep and resonant, pleasant and warm. The boys cackled with him, wiping tears from their eyes.
Elspeth walked up to him, her hips swaying. When she reached him, she lifted a flour-dusted finger, meaning to brush it over his nose.
But his hand gently closed over hers. The unexpected warmth of his touch knocked the air from her lungs. His fingers brushed her own, just a simple contact, yet it sent a shiver up her arm to her chest.
For a moment, everything else vanished.
The clatter of pans, the laughter, the scent of sugar and spice… all blurred into nothing buthim. She could feel her pulse fluttering against his palm, far too quick, far too eager.
The air seemed to tighten, draw them nearer, until it felt as though the smallest breath might close the space between them. Her lips parted, a word forming and dying on her tongue, because what word could match this strange, dizzying ache unfurling inside her?
“Would you like some assistance, Lady Inverhall?”
“Erm, assistance? What do ye mean?” she asked breathlessly, overwhelmed by his proximity.
