Dara, Page, and the Secrets of the Multiverse

▷ 8.1

If Page's mud-splattered boots were a spectacle, she would have questioned her definition of the word. But they were the only things she found interesting, despite the real spectacle happening beyond them. Moving about in frantic paces before skidding to a halt before her, another tapered tip of a boot edged through her periphery.

"How many months has it been?" the quartermaster asked, his tone rising into an annoyed pitch. Page winced, but with her head ducked so low, she prayed he didn't see it. "Who among you still can't learn to sprinkle godsdamned salt into the young master's breakfast?"

Page kept her head down. She couldn't afford to have attention showered all over her again. It was the third time this week. A little more, and she might have to kiss this job farewell. She couldn't afford that. With the rent hiking up next month, she'd had enough reason to work harder to keep her place. Kitchen maids were easy to replace, after all.

If she was to guess and guess correctly, the quartermaster's face would be beet red now, lecturing the entire kitchen staff on why the Duke of Marren's youngest son wasn't happy with the food. Well, for one, the brat was as picky as a blasted doe. Secondly...

The quartermaster stopped in front of the array of stovetops. All of the pots used in preparing breakfast remained in their places. Some still boiled, with them made to serve the highest servants in the estate. Higher in rank, maybe, but still lowly slaves. Page raised her head to find the quartermaster picking her station. A wince crept into her face when he stabbed a ladle into the pale yellow goop inside and had a taste.

"You..." The edge sharpening his voice never flew by Page's head as he turned to her, pinpointing her among the crowd of similarly-dressed women. Busted. "Haven't I warned you?"

He had. During the first few months, Page studied under the experienced cooks and kitchen staff. The quartermaster stressed the importance of keeping the duchy members happy with every bit of his strained elegance. "Food is the most important aspect of human happiness," was what the quartermaster said to a crowd of newbies Page was lumped with that day. "Forget that, and you can start packing."

She had an ass-worth of care towards the nobility's happiness, but if they were to shed a scant amount of their generational wealth to a crawling vermin like her, they would have to be stingy hags about it. But she tried her best. She really did. Under the scrutinizing eye of her supervisor, she coughed out barely acceptable viands. Feeling proud of herself with that, she moved on to the next phase of the job, which was unsupervised. As soon as she was thrown off the nest, as soon as she felt as if she wasn't being monitored, her disasters started.

Suddenly, the nobles would start clambering to the kitchen themselves, demanding why the breakfast was served cold, or it had too little seasoning or helping of spices, or the bread was as hard and tasteless as a rock, or why the clear soup turned into a gooey gruel. The quartermaster heard all sorts of complaints, and all of them had been directed to none other than Page.