Chapter Three: The Kitchen

The kitchen of Fortescue Manor was less a place of culinary creation and more a scene of violent vegetable interrogation.

Double doors swung open, and I was hit by a wall of heat that smelled of garlic, yeast, and suppressed rage. Steam hissed from copper pans. Knives thudded against wooden blocks with a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like a death march.

In the center of the chaos stood a man who was ninety percent moustache and ten percent anger. He was wearing a chef’s hat so tall it scraped the ceiling beams. This was Chef Gustave.

"No, no, NO!" Gustave screamed at a terrified scullery maid. "The Camembert must weep, you fool! It must not sweat! Sweating is for plumbers! Weeping is for poets! Get it out of the heat!"

Mrs. Hardrind cleared her throat. The sound cut through the kitchen clatter like a cleaver.

Gustave spun around, a ladle raised like a weapon. His eyes narrowed as they landed on me. He marched over, circling me just as Hardrind had done, but he smelled of brandy and burnt sugar.

"What is this?" he demanded, gesturing at me with the ladle.

"The new vessel," Hardrind said simply.

"Vessel?" Gustave poked my hip with the handle of the ladle. "Sturdy. Wide base. Good surface area. But is she stable? If I stack a wheel of Parmesan on this shoulder, will she crumble?"

"I don't crumble," I said, swatting the ladle away. "And I’m not a shelf."

Gustave gasped. The entire kitchen went silent. A sous-chef dropped a whisk.

"She speaks!" Gustave whispered, horrified. "The furniture speaks!"

"She’s fresh," Hardrind said, bored. "She’ll learn silence. Plumb, this is Barnaby. He handles the... heavy logistics."

From the back of the kitchen, a man emerged from the steam. If Gustave was a ball of neurotic energy, Barnaby was a tranquilizer dart in human form. He was tall, blonde, and possessed shoulders that seemed to have their own postcode. He was carrying a crate of milk bottles as if they were empty cardboard.

"Hi," Barnaby said, flashing a smile that probably had a history of stopping traffic. "Don't mind Gustave. He gets emotional about dairy."

"Emotional?" Gustave shrieked. "I am an artist! And Saturday is the Grand Fromage! Everything must be perfect. The cheese must be ripe. The wine must be breathed. And the maid..." He glared at me. "The maid must be flat."

"Flat?" I asked.

"Level!" Gustave corrected. "Horizontal! How are your core muscles, girl? Can you hold a plank position for the duration of a four-course meal?"

"I don't know," I said, feeling the blood drain from my face. "I usually eat the meal, not support it."

"We will see," Gustave muttered, turning back to his stove. "Barnaby! Take her to the training room. Start her on the Cheddar blocks. If she can handle the Cheddar, we will upgrade her to the Gouda. But if she wobbles..." He drew a thumb across his throat. "...she goes to the scullery with the sweaty Camembert."

Barnaby beckoned me with a sympathetic grimace. "Come on, Penny. Let’s get you calibrated."

I followed the golden retriever of a man out the back door, leaving the inferno behind.

"Is he always like that?" I asked as we walked into the cool courtyard.

"Only when there's an audit coming," Barnaby said effortlessly. "Or a Tuesday. Or a full moon. Look, don't worry about the 'plank' thing yet. Mostly you just have to lie still and try not to sneeze while Lord Arthur eats crackers off your back."

I stopped walking. "Excuse me? Eats crackers off my what?"

Barnaby stopped and looked at the me, his blue eyes filled with genuine confusion. "Didn't you read the job description? 'Supportive role'? 'Tableside manner'?"

"I thought that meant pouring wine!"

Barnaby patted my shoulder. His hand was heavy and warm, and it was the only comforting thing that had happened all day.

"Oh, Penny," he sighed. "Here, you aren't the waitress. Here... you're the table."