Page 71 of Be the Serpent

There was a long, solemn pause as Melly looked at me. Then she bobbed her head and upper body in one unified gesture of agreement and bustled back toward her dough. “He’s in-house right now, I believe. His Lady Bess rang down to request dinner in their quarters not long ago. I’ll have you delivered along with the pastry.”

This seemed to very much amuse her, which was a nice thing. At least one of us was laughing. Being in the kitchen was making my stomach flip over and my mouth water at the same time. I frowned, looking around for the source of the respective reactions. Onions, I realized. The smell of onions was making me want to vomit.

That didn’t make any sense. I love onions. But someone was frying them nearby, and it was the nastiest thing I’d ever smelled. Whoever was baking bread, on the other hand? I wanted to be their new best friend, or at least their bread’s new best friend, which was not the same thing and was probably a much shorter-lived relationship.

I snapped out of my brief contemplation of my surroundings to find Melly watching me with an odd brightness in her eyes. “A happy marriage so far, then?” she asked.

“I mean, apart from the danger and the disaster and the hero work, yeah,” I said.

“And he supported you taking Mistress Rayseline into your home?”

I blinked. The fact that the household staff of Shadowed Hills was even more devoted to Raysel, the actual daughter of the house, than they were to me had completely slipped my mind in the chaos and need to make it from the Shadow Roads to someplace safer. “She asked,” I protested. “When I spoke to her through the blood, she asked me to claim insult against her, so she could have a little time without any expectations, where she can recover. We’re going to find her a therapist who has experience with changelings.” Changeling therapists turned out to be more common than I would ever have suspected before I started dealing with Arden and Walther on a regular basis. Both of them had a strong interest in mental health and didn’t think being immortal should be treated as a “get out of sanity free” pass.

Not many therapists had experience with purebloods, because not many purebloods were willing to seek that kind of help. Especially not from changelings and merlins, the two groups who seemed to make up the entire therapeutic network. Still, something was better than nothing, and Raysel was going to get the help she needed.

“I thought it might be something like that,” said Melly, picking up a mason jar and sprinkling its contents over her dough, which immediately began to puff out and rise, going through its natural prove at an accelerated rate. “She’s a good girl, our Raysel, and it’s not her fault she’s been pushed to doing some bad things. She’ll be better off away from here, much as it pains me to say that. She needs the distance.”

“Yeah. Simon’s agreed to stay away from the house until she’s ready to see him, but since she never really saw him while she was captive, she isn’t as bothered by his presence as I would have expected her to be. I think we’re going to be okay.”

“See to it you are.” Melly spun around to open an oven and pull out a tray of baking pastries with her bare hands. “Mind your fingers, those’ll be warm for a minute yet,” she said, merrily.

Hobs aren’t fire fae, but they’re hearth crafters, and their magic is frequently very generous when it comes to protecting them from ordinary household accidents. Like blisters when they grab hot trays without oven mitts. I still winced as Melly moved the tray to an open stretch of counter and set it down, unable to stop myself from picturing what that would feel like if it were me.

The pastries smelled delicious. Still . . . “This is a little urgent,” I said, apologetically. “If there’s any way we can hurry this up . . . ?”

“They’ll be cool in just a moment, and as I said, I’m delivering you alongside the pastry,” said Melly. “You want help, you want Etienne to put himself out for you, you’ll need to have more patience than you’ve ever been inclined toward. I know you can do it. I believe in you. If you want to help, get that basket over yonder and start moving the pastries over. There’s three going wanting, if you’re feeling peckish.”

“What are they?” I asked, retrieving the basket she had indicated.

“Cardamom-pear, cinnamon-apple, and blueberry-ginger. I didn’t expect to see you today, but I still left off the strawberry. Odd, that.” Melly smiled, indulgently.

I started moving the pastries from the tray into the basket, using a pair of tongs rather than my fingers. I might heal, but I didn’t share Melly’s affinity for touching hot metal without dropping something. “Actually, strawberries haven’t been bothering me for a while now,” I said. “I think that allergy was something I got from my dad, and the more I’ve moved myself away from him, the less it’s been a problem.”

Melly blinked at that, her face falling. “Oh, Toby, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Because I can eat strawberries now?”

“Sorry because that’s one more thing you should never have been asked to lose.”

I looked away from her, focusing on the simple task of moving pastries into a basket—an activity complicated by the fact that I was still holding Tybalt against my chest with one arm. He seemed so fragile like this, so small and helpless. I loved him just as much right now as I did any other time, but I also wanted to keep him safe.

More, I wanted him to wake up. I wanted him to be here with me, to help me make Melly understand that this was urgent. But she’s known me since I was a dramatic kid and, as a consequence, doesn’t take much of anything I say as being as urgent as I think it is. I glanced back to her once all but three of the pastries had been moved.

“Maybe not, but I still remember him, and I’m not letting him go, no matter how much I have to lose or give away,” I said, voice mild. “Now please. This is important. Stacy’s family is at stake.”

Melly’s eyes widened, and she snatched the pastry-filled basket, clutching it to her chest. “Why didn’t you say so? Come along, come.”

She bustled toward the end of the kitchen, away from the door. I grabbed a pastry and followed her.

By the time I caught up with her, she had acquired another basket from somewhere, this one filled with a fresh loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a pot of jam. She met my eyes, nodded, and pressed a decorative carved flower on the wall. A panel swung inward, revealing the service hall on the other side, and we hurried in.

The service halls snake all through the knowe, twisted through the body of the building like the roots of a tree, and they can be used to move from almost any room to almost any other, if the knowe is feeling cooperative and you have a rough idea of where you’re going, or at least how to read the symbols on the walls.

I lived in Shadowed Hills for years without learning to navigate the service halls. It took Quentin to show them to me, explaining that they were the way he and the other courtiers could move around without being seen. It had been one of my more embarrassing moments. There weren’t a lot of areas where I expected myself to know everything, but getting around Shadowed Hills was one of them.

Tybalt started to stir as we walked, finally yawning extravagantly and showing off a solid mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. He opened his eyes, blinking up at me, and squirmed to be put down.

“A second, Melly,” I said, and stopped to lower him to the floor. Sure, cats are good at landing on their feet, but dropping my husband when I didn’t have to seemed a little ruder than was necessary.