Poisoned

Poisoned - Ch. 14 [Fault]

          Chapter 14: Fault

          By the time that Viola and I staggered into the Kitchens, we were both drenched. My skirt was heavy with brine and my hair was beginning to harden from the salt of the sea spray. Viola looked just as wild, but still looked stunning. It must be a gypsy thing.

          “Hungry?” she asked me cheerfully, striding over the roaring hearth to dry off. I followed her, attempting to blend in with the stone walls. The Kitchens were not my favourite part of the castle.

          “N-no,” I stammered, “I need my antidote.”

          Viola arched an eyebrow, looking surprised as though she’d completely forgotten that my life was measured by it. “Right. What time is it?” she muttered to herself, looking around. Her gaze fell on a strange contraption with arrows and numbers. She peered intently at it.

          “You have ten minutes, it’s plenty of time. At least grab a bite!” she invited me.

          I clutched my stomach, knowing the only thing I was able to ingest would be my antidote, nothing else until then. “Only ten minutes?” I gasped, “I have to go!”

          Viola sighed. “Arianna, Sir Daelin’s quarters are a two minutes walk from the Kitchens. Since he trains the Poison Testers, he has to be close to where the King’s meals come from. And he’s also close to the Throne Room. So don’t worry your pretty little head over it, I’ll ensure you’re there on time.”

          I tried to relax which was difficult to do in such an intense atmosphere. Thankfully, no one had any time to pay me any mind because they were all rushing madly about.

          Two enormous hogs – shot down by a noble’s hunting party – were roasting on spits. Knives flew as they raced to chop vegetables, scullery maids peeled potatoes, a young lad dragged two buckets of cream to where a portly woman was marinating a goose, three young girls kneaded bun dough while chattering happily. It was not even seven in the morning and the entire Kitchen was preparing the King’s noon meal.

          A giant of a man stood in the very center of the room where all the activity flitted around him, bellowing orders at everyone. He must be the King’s Royal Chef.

          “Alan!” Viola was suddenly beside him, smiling as though he was her best friend in the world.

          The chef looked down, his grimace fading and changing into a grin as his eyes landed on the gypsy girl.

          “Ziporah, you little hussy!” he boomed, successfully terrorizing everyone nearby.

          Viola grimaced. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Viola like everyone else, you beef-witted bladder?”

          My mouth fell open in shock at their crude exchange, but it seemed like it was the norm.

          “You little wench. You were born Ziporah of the house of Athalia, why in Saint Peter’s name should I call you Viola? Because your undead lover of a Prince named you that?”

          Viola scowled affectionately. “You bone-headed cod, feed us!”

          Alan gave a booming laugh, two meaty hands placed on his round stomach. “We have porridge, or some quail. How are those buns coming along, lassies?” he called to the girls who showed them their full trays.

          “Put them in the oven, then! His Majesty will want his breakfast soon.”

          He turned to Viola. “Did you say ‘us’?”