Chapter 4:

The west wing enveloped me like water.

Lucius hadn't meant to embarrass me. He had only answered a question... perhaps one that shouldn't have been asked.

I move quickly, past the banners and decorative armor. My cheeks burn, but I hold my spine level. Running would be childish.

Decorum.

I mean to continue down the great hall to turn left into my library, but the clatter of metal on stone catches my attention—an orchestra of tired voices.

I veer right to stand in the threshold of the kitchen, appraising it with my own eyes for the first time.

The first thing I notice is that the cook's cat is sitting in the cold storage doorway, watching the chaos with an expression of profound professional judgment.

I understand completely.

The heat hits me second—a wall of humid air carrying the scent of roasting meat, yeast, and something burning. Not the gentle warmth of a hearth, but the aggressive pulse of multiple fires competing for dominance. Steam rises from copper pots in irregular clouds, dissipating into the stone archways above like battle smoke.

Absurd chaos, only a simple hall from my realm of silence.

Bodies move in frantic patterns that make no sense. Bumping elbows, pots slammed too loud against scarred wooden tables. Dark skirts powdered white with flour, light skirts dirtied dark with grease stains. A scullery maid rushes between stations carrying a tray that's clearly too heavy for her frame—her arms shake with the effort.

Six stations. Three overlapping. Two understaffed, one completely useless.

The bread station sits too far from the main hearth, the loaves pale and under-risen. The baker keeps opening the smaller oven door, letting precious heat escape with each anxious check.

They won't cook thoroughly. The crust will be weak.

A servant tucked in the back corner drops garnish onto the stone floor, only to pick it back up and add it to the dish without cleaning it. No one notices. Or perhaps they simply don't have time to care.

The head cook barks an order about the evening's entrees, her voice pinched from strain. Sweat beads along her forehead despite the cloth tied around her hair. Her movements are sharp, efficient, but I can see the tension in her shoulders—the way she holds herself like someone carrying too much weight.

They're working hard.

They're working wrong.

The scent of burned butter drifts from the sauce station where a young cook stirs frantically, trying to salvage what's already ruined. The vegetable prep area overflows with scraps that should have been cleared an hour ago. A pot of soup bubbles unattended, its surface forming a skin that no one will notice until it's too late.

I watch them stumble through their choreography of inefficiency, and for a moment, I feel the familiar itch in my fingers. The same urge that drives me to smooth blueprint edges and recalculate trebuchet angles.

I could fix this. Redistribute the stations. Adjust the workflow. Twenty minutes of reorganization could save them hours of struggle.

My foot crosses the threshold before I realize I've decided.

The stone floor feels different here—grittier, worn smooth by countless hurried steps. No one notices me at first. I'm just another moving shape in their peripheral vision, another shadow in the chaos.

The cat's ears twitch as I pass, but it doesn't move from its position of supreme authority over the cold storage.

"If you moved the bread station closer to the hearth and staggered the soup timing..."

The words escape like breath. Quiet. Almost to myself. But something about my voice cuts through the clatter without volume, as if the kitchen itself decided to listen.

The room doesn't stop—the fires still crackle, pots still bubble—but I feel the shift. Heads turn. Hands pause mid-motion. The young cook at the sauce station actually stops stirring.

The head cook—Dolly, I think—looks up from her frantic juggling of three disasters at once. Her eyes find mine across the chaos, and I expect irritation. Territorial dismissal. The sharp rebuke of someone whose domain has been invaded.

Instead, her weathered face tilts slightly, like she's hearing something unexpected.

"What's that, m'Lady?"

Not dismissive. Not deferential either. Just... curious.

"The bread station," I say, stepping further into the heat. "If you positioned it here—" I gesture toward a spot closer to the main hearth "—the residual heat would maintain a consistent temperature. And the soup... sequential preparation instead of batching. Start the next pot as the first one finishes."

Dolly's eyes follow my gestures, then flick back to my face. Something shifts in her expression—complete attention replacing confusion.

"Go on," she says.

The words unlock something in me. The familiar clarity of a problem demanding solution.

"Your vegetable prep is bottlenecking the protein station. Move it there—closer to the cold storage. Route your servers along the outer wall instead of cutting through the workspace. And if you assign one person to garnish rotation instead of having everyone reach for the same herbs..."

I'm gesturing now, my hands mapping the invisible flows of efficiency across the kitchen. The staff are listening—really listening. Not the polite attention of servants humoring nobility, but the focused absorption of people recognizing truth.

"The timing sequences could cascade," I continue, warming to the logic. "Vegetables prep first, then proteins, then final assembly. No one waiting, no stations going cold..."

Something strange is happening.

The baker has abandoned his anxious oven-checking to nod along with my words. The scullery maid sets down her impossible tray and moves closer. Even the young cook who dropped the garnish is leaning in, his eyes bright with understanding.

They're not just listening anymore. They're... eager. Their faces have that quality I recognize from my own reflection when I solve a particularly elegant equation. The hunger for order. For things to make sense.

"Yes," breathes the baker. "Yes, that would—the heat distribution would be perfect."

"And the server routes," adds the scullery maid. "We're always bumping into each other, always—"

"The garnish station," interrupts another cook. "If one person handled it, we wouldn't keep running out of parsley right when—"

They're finishing each other's thoughts now, building on my suggestions with an enthusiasm that feels almost... mechanical. Precise. Like clockwork finding its rhythm.

Dolly claps her hands once. "Right then. Everyone stop what you're doing."

The kitchen goes silent so quickly it's startling. Even the cat looks up.

"We're reorganizing," she declares. "Lady Speer here is going to tell us how."

Every face turns to me. Every expression bright with anticipation. Waiting for instruction.

And for the first time in my life, I realize I'm commanding a room.

This is what authority feels like.

The thought sends warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with the kitchen's heat. They want to listen. They want to follow.

They want me to lead.

From the doorway, a shadow shifts.

I don't notice Mordrde at first—I'm too absorbed in directing the reorganization.

"The bread station goes there, yes. And if you angle the prep table this way..." My hands map the air, and they follow each gesture with an eagerness that makes my pulse quicken.

Mordrde leans against the threshold, arms crossed, watching. His expression starts neutral—the mild curiosity of someone observing kitchen efficiency. But as the minutes pass, something changes in his posture. His head tilts slightly. His eyes sharpen, as if I've confirmed a theory.

The baker moves to relocate his station without a single complaint about tradition or habit. The scullery maid reorganizes her entire workflow with a smile that seems almost blissful. When I suggest the garnish arrangement, three different cooks practically stumble over each other to implement it, their faces glowing with satisfaction.

"You're brilliant, m'Lady," breathes the baker, wiping flour from his hands. "A true blessing to this house."

"A blessing," echoes the scullery maid, nodding rapidly. "We should have asked for your guidance long ago."

"Such wisdom," murmurs another cook. "Such perfect sense in everything you say."

The words wash over me like warm honey. Each compliment builds on the last until I feel almost drunk with validation. These people—people who work with their hands, who know the practical world—they see value in me. They see worth.

"Lady Speer understands things," Dolly declares, beaming at me with something approaching reverence. "She sees what needs doing and knows how to do it right."

More nods. More eager agreement. They cluster around me now, awaiting the next instruction, the next piece of wisdom. Their eyes hold a quality I've never seen directed at me before—not just respect, but genuine devotion.

I feel powerful. Useful. Necessary.

Behind them, Mordrde's expression has gone carefully blank. But his eyes... his eyes are measuring something.

The cat, for its part, has closed its eyes and appears to be meditating on the fundamental nature of human foolishness.

The reorganization takes twenty minutes, exactly as I predicted. The kitchen transforms from chaos into clockwork, each station flowing into the next with mathematical precision. The staff work with renewed energy, calling out cheerful reports of their progress.

"The bread's browning perfectly now, m'Lady!"

"Soup timing's exactly right—no more waiting!"

"The garnish station's a miracle—we'll never run short again!"

Each success feels like validation injected directly into my bloodstream. This is what I was meant for. Not sitting silent in ceremonies or being dismissed in conversations. This—solving problems, making things work, being heard.

"Thank you, Lady Speer," Dolly says, taking my hands in her flour-dusted ones. Her grip is warm, almost fervent. "You've given us such a gift. Such perfect understanding."

"We're so grateful," chorus the others, their voices overlapping in eager unison. "So blessed to have your wisdom."

The cat opens one eye, looks at me with what might be pity, and returns to its vigil.

I practically float as I leave the kitchen, my steps light and quick. The heat follows me into the cooler corridor, but I barely notice. My mind races with possibilities—what other inefficiencies could I identify? What other problems could I solve? For the first time in my life, I feel genuinely useful. Genuinely valued.

People listened to me. Really listened. And they acted on my suggestions with enthusiasm I've never seen directed toward anything I've said or done.

Maybe Father was wrong to overlook me. Maybe I do have something to contribute to House Windsor.