by Sarina Dorie
He didn’t have the time or energy to manage a charge. He hadn’t asked for this responsibility. Nor had she been asked to be assigned to him. By going to the king, he should have been given justice. He’d wanted revenge. Instead, he’d gotten a kitchen maid. He needed to solve her debt as soon as possible so he could focus on what was important. There had to be a way to investigate Alma’s death without making citizens suspicious.
Errol retrieved one of the ledgers from his office. He calculated how much he thought was an appropriate amount to say Ivy had worked. The following day he went to the kitchen and showed her the sums.
“This is how much I would owe you,” he said, pointing to the numbers as she stirred a pot. “We can now say we’re even.”
“Can we?” Ivy pursed her lips. “How much is a life worth?”
Errol closed his book. He didn’t have an answer for that. He wasn’t a merchant, especially not one who bartered in human chattel. Frustration rose in him. He was trying to help Ivy, to give her a way out, and she wasn’t accepting it.
Kendra snorted from where she gave instructions to a girl across the kitchen. “Hopefully she’s worth more than a few stitches in your socks.”
Errol glanced from Ivy’s face turning pink to Kendra’s amusement. “Of course she is,” he snapped.
That was the whole point. A life wasn’t a debt that could be paid. He was doing the best he could to give her a means to start a new life without it costing her soul in the process.
“Let her work off her debt like an honest woman, then.” Kendra made a shooing motion at him.
He pretended he didn’t see Kendra trying to get rid of him.
Errol didn’t want to insult Ivy’s intelligence or her value by implying she was only worth a few hours of mending, but surely she had to see he didn’t intend to take advantage of her position to make her into his personal servant.
He offered a curt bow. “I will bring you more mending when I have some.”
The problem was, he didn’t have any more. He wanted to be decent and just, but the absurdness of his situation weighed down on him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Way to a Man’s Heart
A couple of weeks later, Errol was in an especially grumpy mood after meeting with General Hereweald. All Errol had asked for was to be given leave to perform investigations and patrolling out in Caern with a unit of men to see whether they could find evidence of Raven Court attacks. The general had denied Errol with the same malicious gleam in his eyes that he usually reserved for making Errol’s life miserable.
He took out his bad attitude on his soldiers as he drilled his unit in formations outdoors, his orders curt and merciless as he worked them. The sudden aroma of ginger and cinnamon distracted him from his duty.
“Who’s that?” one of the soldiers whispered.
“She’s a kitchen maid.” Bodil groaned loudly. “The bane of my existence.”
Errol glanced over his shoulder. He found Ivy standing outside the gate, a plate covered with a towel in her hands. Her eyes were wide as she took in his unit practicing formations on the field. He sighed, trying not to let his exasperation show. He had told her she could seek him out at any time, but he hadn’t meant during drill practice. If he was fortunate, she wouldn’t keep him from his duties for long.
“Keep going without me,” Errol said firmly, making eye contact with the two men who were most likely to complain.
They didn’t.
Errol walked over to Ivy. “Hello. How can I help you?”
She ducked her chin down. “We had some leftover sweet biscuits, and Mistress Kendra said I could bring some to you.”
“That was . . . unexpectedly kind of Kendra.” Uncharacteristically kind, based on his experiences with her. Then again, she had taken in Ivy. She couldn’t be all bad.
His mouth watered as he inhaled the aroma. He knew better than to accept gifts from enemies, though. He asked, half teasing, “Did Kendra poison them?”
“Of course not.” Ivy bit her lip and tilted her head, her expression puzzled. “I wouldn’t let anyone poison you, sir.”
“I was just teasing. Sorry, I’m not very funny.” Errol grimaced at his inept social skills.
“Oh, I see. A joke.” Ivy attempted a laugh, though it was as forced as his own.
He excelled at barking out orders. Conversation was not his forte. Errol was aware he had an audience of soldiers to witness his colossal social blunders. He suspected he would never hear the end of it.
Based on the steam rising from the plate, he couldn’t imagine the biscuits had been sitting long. He removed his gloves, dirty from practice, and peeked under the towel. There was an assortment of biscuits, but the ginger cacao ones caught his eye. Those were the biscuits that were still steaming. He selected one.
It had been a long time since Alma had baked them for him. He was surprised Kendra had the recipe.
He bit in and closed his eyes, savoring the flavor. When they were warm like this, they were chewy, and the spice was more potent. He remembered the first time Alma had made these to celebrate his promotion. They transported him to happier days.
It was easier to remember Alma’s cheerful demeanor when he nibbled on one of her recipes. He could hear her laughter as she patted his back, getting flour on his uniform. Errol’s nostalgia died as he opened his eyes and faced the present.
Alma was gone. She would never be there to scold him and point out he was working too hard. Instead he had Ivy, his sister’s replacement.
It was hard enough knowing she had been sent to replace his sister. Tasting Alma’s recipes was like resurrecting her ghost. His throat went dry, and he found it difficult to swallow the rest of the biscuit. He should have been tracking down her killers, not enjoying her biscuits without her.
He found Ivy smiling at him, hope in her eyes. It was rare to see joy in her own expression.
“You like it, then?” She beamed.
He inclined his head. There was nothing wrong with the biscuits, only his conflicted conscience unable to appreciate a good thing even when it was presented to him on a ceramic platter. He forced himself to swallow.
Errol attempted to keep his voice neutral. “Did Kendra tell you these are my favorites?” Not that she had ever brought him biscuits when they were together or any time after, but he wouldn’t put it past her to put Ivy up to this to torment him.
Ivy gazed openly at his face, some of her usual nervousness melting away. “She let me pick out the sweet biscuits we made for the queen’s tea party. I found this recipe in the book with a note that said they were your favorites.”
“I see.” He selected another biscuit that looked like it had double the amount of cacao. The smell was tantalizing. He wanted to eat it, but now that sorrow had lodged into his heart, it blocked the path to his belly. “Alma used to only let me have the burnt biscuits and the broken ones. Once she dropped an entire tray.” A bittersweet smile touched his lips as he remembered. “I told her I didn’t mind eating the biscuits that fell on the floor, and she could drop biscuits more often.”
Ivy giggled. “Just so you know, none of these fell.”
None were burnt either.
“It isn’t terribly selfish of me if I keep them all to myself, is it?” He made his lips smile, to play the part of a grateful benefactor pleased with his charge. He used the formal words of someone indebting themselves to another. “I thank you for your gift.” He doubted the sentiment would be enough to free her from her life debt, but it was a start.
“I brought them all just for you.” Her expression shifted from pride to shyness.
He forced himself to bite into the second biscuit, the bitterness of the cacao contrasting with the sweet cinnamon and spicy ginger.
These biscuits were like his relationship with his sister: sweet moments interlaced with the spice of arguments and bitterness of resentment. The flavor was perfect, yet his stomach rebelled. He couldn
’t finish the biscuit. The tumult of warring emotions was too much. He was in the middle of practice, and this wasn’t the time or place to indulge in sentiment.
He returned his half-eaten biscuit to the plate. “Would you mind bringing these to my office for me?”
Her smile faltered as her gaze fell on the unfinished biscuit. “I haven’t been to your office before.”
“Sure she hasn’t,” one of the soldiers whispered.
Errol’s ears, trained for danger and listening in on conversations, heard what he hoped Ivy couldn’t.
“I know I’d be taking a pretty maid to my office all the time if the Raven Court sent me a sex slave.”
Errol ignored the commentary and turned his attention on Ivy. He’d forgotten to show her where his office was.
He turned back to his men. They had stopped drilling to gawk as if they had nothing better to do. He was uncomfortably aware of how self-indulgent this was, allowing himself to be distracted by a pretty maid and eating biscuits in front of them. It was no better than what he would have seen from some of the less disciplined captains, but he shouldn’t have sunk to such behavior on duty and made a poor example to his unit.
He waved Norris over. “Sergeant Annie Norris will show you to my office and escort you out so you don’t get lost.” He used her name in the hope that Ivy would remember her from the barracks mess hall. He wanted her to know she was safe and among friends.
He could also trust Norris not to make any lewd comments.
Norris jogged toward them. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Those aren’t for you,” Errol said, mostly because everyone was watching, and he didn’t want them to think he’d stand for someone helping themselves to his biscuits.
Errol inclined his head in silent gratitude as they left.
He pointed sternly at the rest of his soldiers. “Five extra minutes of drilling for the lot of you. I will not have lazy soldiers.”
“You gave Norris a biscuit break while we get to work extra hard,” Bodil complained.
Merril crossed his arms, looking pouty. “It isn’t fair. You always go easy on Norris because you like her better.”
From the way the Fae man emphasized the word, Errol knew what he meant. He wasn’t about to take the bait or acknowledge the private’s attempt to make insinuations about Errol’s conduct with junior officers—or Norris’ conduct with senior officers.
Errol stepped in closer, keeping his voice low. “The fact of the matter is, I do like her better. She follows directions the first time I give an order. Unlike two other soldiers who will be cleaning up the mess hall after supper tonight.”
Bodil wailed miserably.
Errol didn’t feel that broken up about assigning either young man an extra duty. For being at least sixty years older than Errol, they completely lacked discipline and common sense. But then, he’d often found Fae matured slowly. He didn’t know what they’d done with their lives prior to the military, but they were completely hopeless. He didn’t know whether he would be able to save them from themselves.
When Norris snuck back into formation, Errol leaned down to her height to whisper. “You’ve got some crumbs on your chin, Sergeant.”
She hurriedly wiped them away, eyes wide.
Some of the soldiers whispered about the consequence Errol was certain to assign her. He supposed he probably did like her better than many of the recruits, but she had also served in his unit for twenty years. He wouldn’t have promoted her if he hadn’t thought she was capable.
Errol was so busy with his duties he forgot about the biscuits until he returned to his office. Once there, he was greeted by the perfume of spices. His stomach churned. He couldn’t eat the biscuits. They brought back too many memories, both good and bad. He was an officer with duties to focus on. He didn’t have time to mope about his past.
Biscuits wouldn’t bring Alma back. They wouldn’t help him get revenge for what the Raven Court had done.
He brought the biscuits to Helga and her husband, Halfdan, and a few more to other officers he liked. After the biscuits were gone and he returned to his office, the lingering aroma in the air gnawed at his belly. Only then did he regret not saving any for himself.
He kicked at his chair and sent it flying across the room into the wall. Why did he have to be so rash?
The next day as he folded the towel on the plate, he found the half-eaten biscuit he’d missed the night before. He savored each remaining bite, tears filling his eyes.
* * *
Errol brought the plate back to the kitchen the following day.
Kendra glowered at him as he returned the plate and towel to the table. As her eyes bored into him, for the briefest moment, he thought he saw something of his sister’s expression in her face. Errol had never believed in ghosts, but he thought he felt her here, imprinted on the stone floor, with her essence flavoring every food.
Errol didn’t see Ivy anywhere. One of the scullery maids took the plate and pointed to the larder before he could ask where Ivy was. He walked around the corner, finding her bent with her arm stretched deep into the shelf of pickled vegetables.
Errol didn’t want to spook her, so he announced himself by clearing his throat. “Good day to you. I wanted to express my enjoyment of—”
She let out a squeak that made her sound like a mouse and hit her head against the shelf. Her elbow collided with three jars of pickled asparagus. Errol dove forward, faster than lightning. He used magic to swoop toward the jars before they fell and broke. He scooped them up in his arms and returned them to the shelf.
“No harm done.” He grinned, expecting praise.
She shirked back.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, realizing he probably should have said that first.
She nodded.
“Captain Errol,” Kendra called from the door. “Get out of my larder, and quit spooking my girls!”
Shame flushed through him. “Oh.” Errol walked backward toward the door, trying to fit a word more in. “I apologize for startling you. I just wanted to let you know I liked the biscuits.”
Kendra punched him in the shoulder as he exited. He refrained from telling her it didn’t hurt, but that was in part because he didn’t trust her not to hit him with something harder next time.
Kendra lowered her voice. “I’ve just managed to convince her to go into the larder for the first time this week. I don’t need a blasted man like you ruining that.”
“Why wouldn’t she go into the larder?” He glanced back at the door.
Kendra nudged him away from the larder. “It’s none of your concern.”
Errol could only imagine one possibility of why a man like him might terrify Ivy in a closed-in space. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do.” Her eyes narrowed.
Errol retreated before she hit him again. He didn’t want to terrify Ivy by dropping in unannounced and decided to leave her alone until she came to him again with biscuits or a request to do some mending.
He wished he could have undone all the terrible things that had happened to her. Moreover, he craved to help other people enslaved in the Raven Court’s castle, but that was beyond the scope of his duties or abilities. When he thought about the last time he’d been put in a position to face the Raven Court with his king’s army, many had died.
For twenty years their two kingdoms had experienced relative peace—if one didn’t count supposedly rogue Fae from the Raven Court murdering kitchen maids. It had been a daring act of defiance to kill one of the subjects of the Silver Court in their own kingdom. King Viridios might have been satisfied with their form of retribution, but Errol wasn’t.
His inability to make amends—not just for his sister’s death but for Ivy’s miserable life—festered like a rotting wound. He wanted to solve the problem of the Raven Court; he just didn’t know how.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Sp
ark of Inspiration
Errol liked training soldiers, sparring, and drilling formations. Many of the officers complained about writing up reports and documenting events, though Errol found writing in his ledgers cathartic. It reminded him of his days serving under Captain Arnfinnr, who had taught Errol the importance of keeping accurate records and documenting information on personnel.
Of Errol’s many duties in the royal guard, patrolling and standing post was always his least favorite—depending on who he was tasked with keeping safe. It was difficult to keep the disgust from his face when he stood watch outside or inside the chamber of Princess Quenylda after all the people she had manipulated and hurt. He loathed the artist salons when the Silver Court used their muse powers to beguile human artists—and sometimes drive them mad.
Even guarding the king, which Errol had once considered an honor and a privilege, no longer brought him joy. Not after how King Viridios had turned a blind eye to his unscrupulous children and wife’s murderous ways.
The only member of the royal family Errol didn’t despise was Prince Elric-Atherius. He was kind to the human artists and philosophers he invited to the palace to inspire. Errol enjoyed standing in the room, glamoured invisible as he listened to the prince speak in Italian with Galileo Galilei. He knew just enough of that human dialect to be able to comprehend Signor Galilei’s passion for science.
Up until then, Errol had no idea human scientists could be as ardent as artists. Prince Elric-Atherius’ inspirational energy drew the quiet Morty man out of his shell and made him expound on his theories with confidence.
“Tell me about this constellation you’re documenting,” Prince Elric-Atherius said to his Morty guest.
Sparks of energy burst out of Signor Galilei as he explained what he was able to see through his telescope. Errol gazed in awe. This was muse magic as it was meant to be—a reciprocal exchange. Not a selfish abuse of the gift.
