The frozen heart

Chapter 11: Peeling Back the Layers

Chapter 11: Peeling Back the Layers

The kitchen was a cacophony of sounds—clanging pots, sizzling pans, and the constant chatter of maids rushing around with trays and baskets. Anne stood in the middle of it all, holding a potato in one hand and a peeling knife in the other, trying to make sense of the chaos.

"Anne! You're doing it wrong!" one of the senior maids barked at her, scurrying past with a tray piled high with bread. "You need to peel faster! We've got a banquet to prepare!"

Anne smiled weakly, giving a half-hearted nod, but inside, her mind was on fire. I'm peeling as fast as humanly possible, thank you very much. What am I, a potato-peeling machine? She sighed, turning her attention back to the potato and slowly carving away the skin. I've been here for, what, two weeks? Three? And already I'm getting yelled at for my inadequate peeling speed?

"Yes, ma'am," she mumbled instead, keeping her face neutral.

As soon as the senior maid was out of earshot, Anne rolled her eyes and turned back to her pile of potatoes. I am not cut out for this. I didn't sign up for a kitchen boot camp when I got sucked into this book. I just wanted to know what happens to the villain. And now, I'm stuck in medieval Hell peeling vegetables like my life depends on it.

She sighed again, working the knife against the potato with a little too much force, as if the root vegetable was somehow responsible for her current predicament. God, this reminds me of work. Why does this feel like work?

Another maid came over, setting down a basket of carrots. "After the potatoes, you'll need to chop these," she said brightly.

Oh, great, now I'm a professional carrot chopper, too, Anne thought sarcastically. But she forced a smile. "Sure thing," she said sweetly.

Inside, though, her mind was a whirlpool of grumpy thoughts. This is just like my old job. Never saying what I actually want to say. Never standing up for myself. Just silently resenting everything and everyone while nodding along like a puppet.

She could practically hear her old boss's voice in her head: "Anne, can you stay late tonight? We've got a deadline." And then there she was, glued to her office chair, her brain screaming NO while her mouth politely responded with, "Sure, no problem."

Why am I like this? she wondered, glaring at the potato as if it held all the answers. Why can't I ever say what I'm actually thinking?

The senior maid returned, inspecting Anne's work. "That potato's still got some skin on it," she commented, not even looking directly at Anne but instead at the mountain of unpeeled potatoes still waiting. "And remember, don't be slow. We don't have all day."

Anne's jaw clenched as she offered a tight smile. I am going to peel this potato so aggressively, it will look like it was skinned by a warrior. Is that fast enough for you, oh mighty queen of potatoes? She stabbed the knife into the next potato, peeling it with newfound fury.

It's just like my job, she fumed internally. Endless deadlines, unreasonable expectations, and no recognition. I hated that job so furiously, I thought about quitting every day. She could imagine it now—storming into her boss's office, dramatically throwing down her resignation letter, and announcing: "I'm DONE!"

But no, she hadn't done that. Instead, she had smiled, nodded, and gone along with whatever was thrown her way. Just like now.

Anne glanced up at the other maids, all hustling around without a care in the world. They seemed perfectly content to be working in a kitchen, obeying every command. Was she the only one mentally rebelling against the tyranny of kitchen life?