Silence. Amelia stared. “Custard?”
“Yes, very much so,” Valerie said.
Amelia’s mouth twitched. “Well,” she said slowly, “that is something I can work with.”
Amelia found Mrs. Jacobs in the corridor and declared, with far more confidence than she actually felt, that she required access to the kitchen. The housekeeper blinked at her as though she had suggested setting fire to the drawing room for entertainment.
“The kitchen, Miss Shirley?” Mrs. Jacobs repeated slowly, as if testing whether she had heard correctly.
Amelia nodded with brisk certainty and added, “I intend to cook.” That statement alone seemed to travel through the house faster than gossip at a village assembly.
Mrs. Jacobs herself followed Amelia down the corridor with the expression of a woman escorting someone toward certain disaster. “Your Grace did not mention anything about culinary experiments,” she said carefully.
“I am not experimenting,” Amelia replied brightly as she tied an apron around her waist. “I am simply making custard.”
“I see,” Mrs. Jacobs murmured.
A maid fumbled with a spoon with wide eyes. The kitchen was warm, bustling, and filled with the comforting scent of bread and herbs. It felt more honest than the rest of the house. Amelia rolled up her sleeves with determination and began gathering ingredients. If she could not win David with authority or arithmetic, she would at least attempt sugar. Sugar had never disappointed her before.
Valerie appeared shortly after, standing in the doorway with the expression of someone observing a carriage crash in slow motion. “This will not work,” she said flatly.
Amelia stirred the mixture calmly, keeping her movements steady and unhurried as though the entire matter were of no greater importance than the weather. “That is a rather pessimistic opening remark,” she observed without looking up, her tone light enough to avoid direct confrontation.
“It is realistic,” Valerie replied at once, her voice clipped with certainty.
“Those are often confused,” Amelia said, still focused on the bowl as she worked the mixture into a smoother consistency.
Valerie stepped closer, arms folded tightly across her chest in a posture that suggested she had already decided how this would end. “David will not be won over by custard to learn his lessons,” she stated flatly.
“Then I suppose we shall both be surprised,” Amelia replied with an easy brightness that she did not entirely feel but was determined to maintain.
Valerie gave her a look that carried the quiet confidence of someone who had already dismissed the entire endeavor. “You are wasting your time.”
Amelia continued stirring without pause, refusing to acknowledge the weight of the judgment. “As long as you remain here watching, I shall take it as support.”
“I am not supporting you,” Valerie corrected, her expression tightening.
“Of course not,” Amelia agreed smoothly.
A brief silence followed, filled only by the soft sound of the spoon against the bowl. Amelia allowed a small smile to form asshe kept her attention on her work. “But you are still here,” she added lightly.
Valerie did not respond, though she did not leave either, which Amelia privately considered a meaningful distinction. The girl remained near the doorway, watching with guarded interest as if unwilling to admit she was invested in the outcome. Amelia filed that away as a small but useful victory.
From the corridor beyond came the faint sound of footsteps, small and uneven, followed by the unmistakable presence of hesitation. Amelia did not look up at first, knowing from experience that children approached uncertain situations like skittish animals; too sudden a movement would send them retreating. Instead, she continued stirring the custard with deliberate calm, as though nothing in the world required her attention beyond it.
She could feel David before she saw him, a small, stubborn presence hovering at the threshold of the kitchen. Grover’s tail thumped somewhere nearby, and the dog’s immediate shift in attention confirmed his position without need for visual confirmation.
Amelia kept her gaze fixed on the bowl as though entirely unaware of being observed. “Could you hand me that spoon, please?” she asked casually, her voice steady and unforced.
There was no reply. No movement. No sound. Amelia hummed softly to herself as she continued stirring, maintaining the illusion of complete disinterest. “Or perhaps you are too busy,”she added after a moment, as though the absence of response had not been particularly noteworthy.
Still nothing followed. She waited just long enough for the silence to feel deliberate, then set the bowl down with a controlled sigh that suggested mild disappointment rather than frustration. “That is unfortunate,” she said lightly. “I had planned to make custard, but since no one seems interested in helping me, I suppose I shall prepare vegetables instead.”
A very small, very distressed sound came from the doorway, as though the suggestion itself had caused personal offense.
Amelia turned her head only slightly, just enough to acknowledge presence without appearing to pursue it, and she saw David standing there with the cautious stillness of someone uncertain whether he had already made a mistake. He had taken one step into the room, then another, his expression tightening into something deeply suspicious.
“Vegetables?” he asked, the word sounding almost accusatory.
