Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47894 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47894 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
“You there, by what name are you called?”
Realizing Mrs. Brogan with her dulcet tone was speaking to me, I rushed to her side, timing my movements so I didn’t get in anyone’s way. “Xander ma’am.”
“Tell me, Xander, you don’t look like a hunter or a laborer. Where might you have worked before becoming lost in the woods?”
“I worked in a kitchen, ma’am.”
“Oh, you will be rewarded if it be true,” she told Mr. Callaway before returning her attention to me. “I need biscuits to pair with the ham, biscuits to serve with dinner—truthfully now, boy, are you able to make them?”
“I can. Corn or buttermilk?”
Her brows furrowed in confusion.
I dredged my brain for snippets of information my grandmother had related to me in passing. Generational memory was a blessing. “Pardon, I meant hardtack, or a beaten or maybe you know it as a rolled, biscuit. I can make either.”
Instantly, the creases disappeared. “Excellent,” she announced, taking hold of my arm. “Bid your rescuers goodbye,” she instructed me, then looked at Mr. Callaway. “Collect your coin from Mr. Gaffney,” she directed. “Tell him I’m paying for a baker’s helper.”
“A baker’s helper,” Mr. Callaway said, sounding pleased. I was guessing the going rate for one of me was more than he’d been expecting. “Bless you, lad.”
He had no right to say that—he’d basically sold me—but he also brought me where I needed to be, under Giles’s nose, into his house, so I waved even as Mrs. Brogan hauled me away.
She walked me to a large sink so I could wash up before she set me free in yet another room, the pastry area beside the pantry.
“Now, after we get the first wave of people fed, I’ll send you to speak to Mr. Gaffney, the steward’s man. He must have you sign the register to be on staff.”
My exhale was long. “Thank you for taking me in.”
“Well, I need someone, and you have a good face. At first glance, when you rushed by me to the hearth, when I spied your long hair and lashes, I thought you were a lass. But when you turned, I noted the shoulders and chest and knew you were not. I need a strapping lad, and you will do well.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You will need a bath tonight, and I will find a uniform for you. Once you get paid, you can purchase some clothes in town.”
“I will.”
“We all sleep in the east wing, and one of the other lads will show you there this evening once the dinner service concludes.”
I thanked her, and once I was done washing to her satisfaction—I had been underground earlier in the evening and never gotten my shower—I got a kerchief for my hair, ties to keep my sleeves up, and a pristine white apron. She gave me directions, then left me to it.
I got to work using my grandmother’s buttermilk-biscuit recipe, doing the math in my head to quadruple the servings. I was pleased to see that the wood-fired oven was ready for me—I only had to keep it hot—and thanked my grandparents for teaching me to cook in one.
It was comforting to lose myself in a task, to gather my strength and thoughts and prepare to see Lorne. It occurred to me that the time slip might have done something to his memory, altered it, made him forget me, but I shoved that away because dwelling on it was useless. Amanda always said that worrying before you even knew if you had to was a waste of valuable energy. I took a breath, thought about her and the kids and her husband, Eddie, and felt better. It was grounding to remember who you were and who loved you.
Baking always helped, so I mixed, covered every surface with flour, rolled out dough, cut it, then again and again, until I could finally put my creations in the oven. Another server, a pixie of a woman with blonde curls and freckles, brought me a plate of cheese, sausage, and sliced apples on Mrs. Brogan’s order.
“I don’t eat meat,” I told her.
“May I have them?”
“Oh yeah, please.”
She squinted at me, and I knew the yeah had sounded odd.
“I meant, help yourself.”
I got a wide smile then. “Your biscuits smell heavenly, and I have not seen any that were so large and…I know not.”
“Fluffy?” I offered.
“Fluffy?” She sounded confused.
My brain was lagging just a bit. “Like clouds. Light and fluffy.”
She nodded. “Yes. Fluffy.”
I moved one slowly off the baking sheet I’d pulled from the oven, then slipped it into the pocket of her apron. “Try it with honey. That’s the best.”
“You have an odd way of speaking—what is your name?”
“Xander. And yours?”
“Constance.”
We shook hands.
“Do you enjoy working here, Constance?” I asked as I moved around, pulling trays out of the oven and putting more in.