Page 7 of The Madman and his broken Princess
“Good,” I said.
He opened one eye with a tired smile, then closed it again.
“I’ll grab something for you to eat.” I took a step back.
“Take the back entrance over there.” He pointed to the end of the cellblock. “That staircase ends behind the kitchen. The staff there can keep their mouths shut. Or did your father kill them?”
“I don’t know.” I hurried down the way Nestore had recommended and found myself behind the kitchen on the first floor. I peered inside. It was the size of a restaurant kitchen, and just as many people were working there. Two cooks, if their hats were an indication, and three helpers who cleaned dishes, prepped veggies and fruits, and washed the pots.
I walked in. My entrance remained undetected due to the sheer volume of noise in the room. I cleared my throat, then again louder. One of the cooks spotted me—a tall, curvy woman in her thirties with long black hair piled into a net at the nape of her neck. “The mistress,” she announced loudly, and silence fell over the room, everyone becoming motionless. I flushed. The staff at our home was equally instructed. My father expected utmost obedience.
“I was looking for some food and water.”
“Wasn’t the breakfast to your liking?” the older cook inquired, concerned.
My skin heated further. I had eaten breakfast with Flavia before I went down to Nestore. Of course, it would look suspicious if I were to want more food so soon after. Next time, I’d have to hide some of my own food for Nestore. This was new to me, and I obviously had some learning to do.
“It was good. I simply crave more,” I said firmly, lifting my chin. I hoped they wouldn’t prod further. I wasn’t a very good eater, but they didn’t know me yet.
“Of course,” the cook said. “What would you like?”
“Pancakes, a stack of them with butter and maple syrup.”
“Bacon?” inquired the younger cook.
I hated bacon, but maybe Nestore liked it. “Yes, please.”
“Where would you like to have your food?”
“Uhhh…” I cleared my throat. “I’ll take it with me to my room.”
“We can bring it up so you won’t have to wait,” the younger cook said as she began to cut slices from a big piece of pancetta.
“I’ll wait here. Thank you.”
They didn’t argue and set out to work. I hovered near the door, wringing my hands, unsure what to do while they worked. One of the helpers, a girl who looked only marginally older than me, set a carafe of water and a glass on a tray. Ten minutes later, a plate with a big stack of pancakes, covered in syrup, pancetta, and butter, followed.
I gave them a grateful smile and picked up the tray, my arms tensing under the weight of it. I gritted my teeth. I had never carried a tray, and it showed. The staff watched me with concern as I crept out, worried I’d drop everything.
It took me forever to descend the staircase to the basement, and by the time I arrived at Nestore’s cell, the pancakes were cold. I pushed the plate into the cell under the bars, but the carafe was too big to fit. I filled a glass with water and handed it to Nestore. He ate a few pancakes and all of the bacon, then hid the remaining food under the bed.
“Thanks for the food.” He came toward the bars and held out his glass. I refilled it, and he downed the water in one gulp.
“It’s the least I can do. Next time, I’ll bring a bottle so you can hide it in your cell.”
“I can drink from the sink. It tastes rotten, but at least I won’t die of thirst.”
“Only of salmonella or legionella,” I muttered.
He cracked a smile. “I’m not convinced that it isn’t worth looking into.”
I didn’t understand how he would still smile. If our roles were reversed, I’d be cowering in the corner, crying my eyes out.
I glanced at my watch. “I have to go. My stepmother told me my father would return around lunchtime. I don’t want to make him suspicious.”
I didn’t mention that I needed to shower and throw my clothes in the laundry. I was too scared that the putrid stench of the basement clung to my skin and fabric, and Father would know what I had done.
Nestore nodded. “Enjoy your new home.”
