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1, Herbs and Herbivores

They went inside once the sun had begun to sink beneath the mountains which made a border between their kingdom and beyond. Weatherston Abbey was the closest to them for miles around. Surrounded by stone walls, it was guarded against any of the Mountain Men by burly guards wearing dark dyed leather. They didn't speak much, but Britta liked to climb up the side of the wall and watch them train in the early mornings.

Mistress Layla was waiting, a carving knife in her hand, when Britta and her sister entered the kitchen. "We're cooking for the Dedicates today." She said, her voice rough like the scantly ground flour she worked with so much.

Britta nodded, sharing a glance with Diana. They rarely cooked for Dedicates with so little warning and preparing the delicacies they indulged in would make things many times more difficult. Their Mistress had already begun to cook. First, preparing the ingredients – cutting out the eyes of the potatoes, which had begun to sprout by this time of the year, and scrubbing the few fresh greens, which had been planted in the glasshouse through winter. The ones Britta had found would be added to the meals for the guards and the orphans themselves.

They helped her quietly, knowing her moods by heart. When she cooked, she had little thought for anything else. Her small, pale eyes, would squint to avoid flour flying into them, while the same substance dusted her narrow face white, like the face paint the noble women used. Her bony hands seemed to know where everything was; her attention seemed to be solely on the bread dough she was kneading, while the fingers of her other hand would grasp the tool's she needed off their hooks nailed into the whitewashed walls.

Britta helped as best she could while staying away from the flour that flew everywhere. The wide windows which let in light were impossible to open, although large, rusted, hinges adorned each side. With no air able to escape, except around the oak wood door, the room was cloudy with the flour and smoke from the fire. Apart from the smell of burning wood and bread dough, Britta could almost see herself in a misty forest, early in the morning. She loved the forest at dawn. Its silence gave her time to think and no one forced her to do work which she would only ever protest against silently.

"When will you be back in the kitchen full-time?" Asked Mistress Layla, ever-disapproving of early spring, when her helpers would be taken to work elsewhere,

Diana answered first before Britta could get a word in. "Soon." She said. "The first gardens are almost finished."

"We have peas planted." Put in Britta, knowing how she loved to cook with those.

Mistress Layla smiled at her, a warm look which Britta only saw when it was just the three of them. The bread dough was well and truly mixed and Mistress Layla put the rolling pin aside after expertly rolling out the dough. It would be flatbread because dinner was served when the Abbey bells chimed six times. There would not be enough time for it to rise before then, which told Britta that Mistress Layla hadn't known who she would be cooking for until recently.

This surprised her because whenever something took her Mistress unawares, she would make it known. Mistress Layla had a voice which could cut like a knife, and wit which she was not afraid to use, unlike Britta, who had developed her own quick mind, but not her confidence.

The dough was flattened onto large, metal platters. Unlike in other kitchens, they were smooth and strong, made by Dedicates and not their apprentices. Mistress Layla still had little faith in them and was gentle as she slid them onto the wire mesh above the hot fire. Neither the metal trays nor the mesh broke, although the fire was beginning to get so hot that even Britta's face became red underneath her light bronze skin.

They prepared potatoes, and whilst Mistress Layla undertook the desert, Britta seasoned meat with different herbs. The meat was thick with fat – an animal which had been caught in autumn before everything was winter-thin. Once the smell of thyme and sage seasoned the wood smoke as well as the food, she had delicately removed the taste of the preserving salts which had let it keep through the cold season. She swept the leaves back into the basket she had woven for them, careful not to crush them. She was envious of the dedicates who ate the expensive meats they spent so long cooking. The orphans often went without anything.

We're like a bunch of cows for more reasons than that, Britta thought, but stopped herself, remembering the fish they sometimes ate a little of and Diana's disapproval of the rebellious thoughts she was so good at sensing.

Mistress Layla had peppered their bread with different herbs too, using a small amount of salt to bring out the flavour. The white substance was brought from the east coast, from the sea, and was so expensive that only the Dedicates and some important guests had the liberty of tasting it in their food. When the merchants came in the summer they would bring more of it, as well as dyed fabric and bars of perfumed soap.

The platters on which the food was served were very different to the ones on which they were cooked. They were a silver metal, embellished with the crest of the Empire Dereges; a moon surrounded by thistles.

Britta helped carry one out, laden with food. More would join it from the other kitchens. She put it on one of the long wooden benches which lined the food hall, ready for the serving girls to collect. Making sure it was well covered, away from flies and the fingers of hungry children, she left to clean the kitchen.

Mistress Layla only let them go once the kitchen was spotlessly clean. Britta's fingers ached from the harsh scrubbing she had subjected their dishes to, and her skirt was pockmarked with the warm water and gritty soap she had cleaned them in. She smelled strongly of lemongrass because of it. The smoke had risen to the ceiling, finding its way out through the small cracks and crevices which opened where the walls met the roof.

By the time the cooking surface was perfectly clean, the strands of Britta's hair which had escaped from their braid stuck to her face with the moisture from the steam. She was pleased to grab a breath of air from the food-hall outside. The serving girls had already gathered up the platters of food, but the smell lingered in the air. It was a sharp contrast to the scent of the cleansing oil which Diana had helped rub into the walls.

The food in the court where the orphans ate was of a lower quality. Even someone like Mistress Layla or Master Crane had a hard time making the ingredients they were given taste good, although even in spring when their stores of preserved food had almost gone, nobody went hungry for more than a day. Britta sat beside Diana and their friends, Fee, and Bella, near the end of one of the long tables.

They left once every dish was empty to clean-up. Bella had to don her crisp, white apron so she looked presentable enough to go and set warming pans in the guest bedrooms.

Before bed, everyone lined up in the long hallway. Mistress Core entered through the door which led to her richly decorated quarters. She was the overseer of the orphans. Corpulent, with her long skirts bulked out with layers upon layers of petticoats, she made an impressive sight as she looked at them imperiously, down her long, fleshy nose. Nobody said a word as she made sure every one of them was where they should be. The boys were lined up opposite them, just as silent and still. Mistress Core seemed to take in every speck of dirt on their clothing, the button at the top of Britta's shirt, which she had undone due to the hot kitchen, the bitten nails of Fees hands. Finally, she nodded, her dark hair hardly moving in its tightly pinned up style.

She left, rustling importantly, her shoes clicking on the bare, stone floor. The other Mistresses and Masters followed, moving to their separate sleeping quarters. The children were silent until they had left, then chatter broke out amongst them. The boys and girls, usually strictly separated, had a few minutes to mingle. It was the time of night when all the jobs were done, and everyone could relax a little more. Fee was talking animatedly, saying how one of the guests refused to have their food served by an orphan. Bella was shaking her head, her blue eyes glinting angrily.

Britta just shrugged, she had long since learned that there was always someone who hated the idea of an orphan.

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Welp, first chapter done. Two things - I'm not sure if this level of description is good or bad but it won't last aaand neither will the relitive lack of spelling/grammar mistakes. So eh, thanks for reading *hugs*