Page 26 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

She had too much time and not enough to do with it, and that was the real problem. A woman with idle hands had nothing to put between herself and her own thoughts. She needed actual work, the kind her hands already knew.

She dressed quickly and headed for the corridor.

It was still dark and quiet this early, but a faint smell reached her from somewhere below, warm and yeasty and entirely familiar.

Bread.

She followed it down.

The kitchen was bright and loud, smelling of everything good.

Three women worked at the main table, arms white to the elbow with flour. A boy of about twelve was stoking the fire with the focused effort of someone who had been told twice already to do it properly. Isla stood at the far counter with a wooden spoon in each hand, arguing with a pot.

Chloe stood in the doorway and felt her shoulders come down.

“Good mornin’, everyone.” The room went quiet.

She crossed to the main table, rolled her sleeves to the elbow, and reached for the nearest lump of dough.

One of the women looked at her hands, then at her face, and then at her hands again.

Isla turned around with the spoon still raised.

Chloe pressed the heel of her palm into the dough and pushed.

“So, are we goin’ to do some work or will ye all keep starin’ at me?”

“Right,” Isla said, to no one in particular. “Right, then.”

They all worked in silence for a while, and the kitchen slowly came back to life around her. Cautiously at first and then fully, with the noise and heat and easy movement of people who knew their work. She carried trays when they needed carrying. She held the bowl while the youngest girl poured. She moved through the space the way she had always moved through kitchens, without needing to be told where things were or what came next.

Isla appeared at her elbow.

“Me Lady,” she began, with the exaggerated gravity of someone enjoying themselves.

“Daenae,” Chloe said.

“I was only goin’ to say⁠—”

“I ken what ye were goin’ to say.”

“Ye are kneadin’ that as if it owes ye coin,” Isla observed. “I have never seen a lady⁠—”

“I told ye. Me mother taught me,” Chloe said, cutting across her pleasantly. “Me mother used to say that a woman who depends only on her face for her keep is a woman one bad winter away from disaster.” She pushed the dough again. “She believed in bein’ useful.”

Isla considered this. “Aye. But a lady of a clan need never have to worry about disaster.”

Chloe’s mind flashed to her father and the debt he had run his clan into. No, definitely. Some ladies would have to face disaster.

At the far end of the table, the boy reached past her for the flour jar and knocked it sideways. White powder sheeted across the table and across the floor.

“Oi!” The word was out before she could stop it. She was already reaching for the cloth. “How many times does a person have to…” She stopped.

The boy stared at her. The women stared at her. Isla had both hands pressed over her mouth.

Chloe looked around and felt a hot flush across her face. These people had let her in, and she was pushing them away.

“Leave it,” she said, forcing a smile. “I will clean it.” She looked at the mess. “I mean, someone else can…” She gestured vaguely at all of it.