Pasqua slept on a bed – a luxury – in a small room in the rear of the Aldermaston’s manor house, but it was scarcely two dozen steps away from the kitchen where she arrived, before dawn, ready to stoke the small fires, punch the dough, and proceed to command the girls around for the rest of the day until weak embers were all that was left in the eyes of the grand ovens.
As Pasqua butted the kitchen door open, gray hair-ends dripping from the rain, she scowled when she found Lia working alone at a grain mill, looking very sleepy.
“Sowe! Get down here, lazy child. There is work to be done and I don’t fancy having to…” She stopped, for she noticed at once that things were wrong. Lia could see the perplexed look on her face as she tried to interpret the changes as Jon Hunter would a new set of animal tracks in the woods.
The rush-matting on the floor by the door was fresh, not stamped and askew. She tapped the rushes with her shoe. A sour smell clung to the air – a smell of sickness. She smelled the air, used to its normal scents. Something in the air felt…wrong. Pasqua looked around quickly, gazing from the cauldrons, to the spitted meat, to Lia.
“Sowe is ill,” Lia said and then yawned. She turned back to the grain mill, filling her apron with seeds. “She climbed down last night to tell me her stomach was ailing, only she retched over us both. I changed the rushes already.”
“Has she a fever?”
“No,” Lia said, carrying the seeds to a small pot of boiling water and emptying them in, then brushing her hands. She pinched some salt and added it. “Can we get help today from the other kitchen? I did not sleep well. My dress smells terrible and I should like to clean it so it can dry today.”
Lia observed her discreetly. Pasqua still felt something lingering in the air. It was obvious in her confused stance, her wary attitude. She shut the kitchen door, listening to the sounds Lia made as she worked. The only light came from the fires, hissing and spitting across the small logs, and from the lamp next to Lia. Shadows wreathed the loft where Sowe slept.
Then she noticed the table. Lia knew that she would sooner or later.
“Did she eat the cherry tarts, is that why she is ill?” Anger boomed and shook through her voice. “Sick are we now, Sowe? So sick we cannot help with our chores? A tempting feast was laid before your eyes. And you thought yourself worthy to eat the Aldermaston’s food?”
Lia turned around, her eyes crinkling with worry. “I did not see her eat them,” she whispered.
“I have half a mind to take a switch to you both,” Pasqua said, hiking up her meaty sleeves. She grumbled to herself, although in reality she was complaining loudly. “Ungrateful wretcheds, both of you. As if you do not eat well enough. Pasqua sees the snitches. Pasqua sees the pinches of dough. Ought to pinch your skinny bottoms, I ought to.”
Lia tried to interrupt her tirade. “Ailsa Cook came begging for a shank off the hog to season a soup for the learners’ second meal.”
“Did you give it to her? Or must I? Looking answers my own question. And there you let her cut it herself, did you now? She took a good portion of the meat too.”
Lia shrugged.
“No doubt you were hopeful she would let a helper come and aid your chores. That is the truth of the matter. Well, Lia, you can both suffer for the misdeeds.”
“I did not eat any of the tarts.”
“But you knew they were gone. Cheeky girl. You could have told me when I came, but you were hiding it for her. Shame on you both. You wipe that sleep from your eyes, lass. You will be working a double share today. Sowe will get her own when she feels better, I promise you that.”
There was a heavy creak from the loft. For a moment, Pasqua clutched her heart and looked with panicked eyes. Lia could see her mind going through spasms of fear, a fear that she could not exactly fathom. Even Lia recognized that little Sowe was not heavy enough to make a creak like that.
Looking crossly at the loft, Lia grabbed a bowl and marched over to the ladder. “Not again.”
Pasqua stared up into the shadows, her face a mask of alarm. Soon daylight would come and dispel the darkness. “Boil some nettle,” she directed. “That can cure an upset stomach. Or mint. Some mint in a tea. That would help settle her. If she has trouble sleeping, we will give her some valerianum.”
Lia climbed up the ladder and disappeared into the loft, where she got ready to scold her friend for making too much noise. So far, her plan was unfolding surprisingly well.
* * *
“I hate this,” Sowe whimpered. “Now it is my fault? I did not eat those tarts. Why did you blame me?”