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TWELVE YEARS LATER . . .
The smell of burnt flesh never quite leaves the memory. In fact, you find yourself constantly reminded of it in everyday things. Like rotated chicken over a tiny fire in the castle kitchen. It made the stomach churn if you stopped to acknowledge the similarity.
Ser Elías was on his duteous guard, checking high and checking low, and every face that came and went around us in the crowded room. Even here in our home, where the only enemies were the new cook frustrated with my dietary requests, and a shifty, but well-meaning footman, new to the premises and often lost, always asking for directions.
"Will there be a non-bird option? Something less... once living?" I asked the cook.
She frowned, "I can try, young miss. Er, Your Highness." She squinted, watching as I nudged Elías off scowling at the boy. "Perhaps a salad?"
"That one's been here at least a month," I whispered to him.
"You insult me," he whispered back. "I've never forgotten a face. He just looks... strange today."
"Strange? Really Eli? He's fourteen at best. How is he supposed to look with you scowling at him?"
"Your Highness," the cook continued. "I will find something for you, I promise." She took a bowl from one of the other girls and moved around the counter. "But it is the morning rush, so if it pleases you, we have much to do before the hour."
Elías sighed, "Yes, we can find someone else to harass, ma'am. Princess?"
I nodded before turning to leave with him.
In the yard, Elías added, "There were a few danishes behind her, did you see?"
"Were there? Hmph."
"Aye. One of them even looked of apple persuasion."
His words made my eyes narrow fondly as I searched them for insincerity, but his knack for detail was always my favorite part of his fifty years. That is, besides the dry humor he occasionally let out for a run. "I suppose we could give her a proper chance, then? Assuming she brings them to lunch?"
