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Manning scoffed and threw the dough he’d been kneading onto the table.

“Tryin’? Have ye never done this before?”

Kate raised her eyebrows. “I have no clue.”

Although this was technically true, she had a feeling she hadn’t. Her hands didn’t know what to do with the chicken, unlike when she’d made the pie for Ian.

Manning’s face grew red, his mustache moving. “How can ye nae ken? If ye’re a cook, ye must have plucked chickens.”

“I—” Kate opened and closed her mouth. The thought of removing the bird’s feathers made nausea rise in her gut. And Manning’s growling made her hands shake.

“Ye’re useless!” he yelled. “I need twelve chickens plucked and then roasted. The wake is tomorrow. Do ye think ye could do anything useful? Or are ye going to stand around opening yer mouth like a fish?”

Kate glared at him. She hated that he was right. And his words hit too close to home, in a spot that radiated a familiar pain.

“There, there ye auld fool,” Cadha said as she wobbled into the kitchen. “I could hear ye yelling from the cowshed. What is the matter?”

“The matter is, the lord has hired a worthless impostor. What kinda cook doesna ken how to pluck chickens?”

Cadha propped her hands on her hips and marched up to him. She flicked him on the forehead. “The lass doesna remember who she is, ye bullhead. How would she remember how to pluck a chicken?”

Manning’s eyes bulged, and his face reddened even more. Kate suppressed a smile. Cadha had her back, and that made something melt in Kate like butter on a hot croissant.

“Here.” Cadha took the chicken from Kate’s hands and walked to the cauldron of boiling water. “This will loosen the feathers. But dinna hold it there for too long or ye damage the skin and the meat. Aye? About the time that takes ye to drink a mug of ale.”

“No idea how long that is. Thirty seconds?”

Cadha threw a confused glance at her. “Whatever a second is, lass. Dinna fash yerself. Ye’ll ken how long. ’Tis called scalding.”

She put the bird in the boiling water and held it. After a short time, what felt like half a minute to Kate, Cadha removed the steaming bird and put it in a big bowl.

Manning was back to kneading the dough. “Ye’re wasting yer time, Cadha.”

“Ah, dinna growl, Manning,” she said.

“Do ye even ken, how to roast a chicken, lass?” Manning asked. “Or make a normal pie? Nae yer strange one with too much butter.”

Kate’s shoulders sank, her arms as weak as noodles. He was right. She didn’t know if she could roast a chicken. And just because Ian liked her pie, it didn’t mean that others would. What if her pie was completely strange for them?

“I—”

“I dinna have time to busy myself with teachin’ ye. We have fifty guests comin’. Cadha shouldna take trouble, either. She has the whole house to clean and her back is painin’ her.”

He glared at Kate and stabbed a finger at her. “Ye’re a liability. Ye’re a burden.”

Cadha gasped and burst into an angry tirade, but Kate didn’t listen anymore.

The word “burden” echoed in her mind in another voice that said the same thing.

A female voice.

Her mother’s voice.

An image flashed in Kate’s mind, unraveling into a movie.

She was older now, and she didn’t feel good. Her throat felt as though it were being cut with razor blades, her head aching. They were in that kitchen again—yellow walls, green cabinets. It smelled like cooked beans and sausages. Her mother hid her face in her palms and shook her head. In front of Kate was a plate with steaming green beans and sausages. Mandy, Kate’s sister, sat to her right. She must be five or six years old, and Kate—ten.

“Can you not cut the ends off the beans, Kate?” Mom said without looking at her. “How hard can it be?”