The air in the Apethorpe kitchens is thick enough to chew: a humid fog of roasting fat, rosemary smoke, and the frantic sweat of thirty terrified underlings. I’ve spent forty years in this heat. To the "God-appointed" upstairs, this is a banquet; to me, it’s just another Saturday night managing a slaughterhouse with better silverware.

I’m hunched over the silver platter, placing the final sprigs of garnish with the same clinical precision my father used to joint a carcass back in Middleham. It has to be perfect. Not because I love the King, but because my work is the only thing in this room that isn’t a lie.

I sense them before I see them: the "devils" and their puppets.

"Now, now," I drawl, my voice like gravel dragged through honey. I don't look up yet. "This tray of delights is fit for his Majesty." I feel the tension behind me, so I twist the knife just a bit. I glance back at the two boys standing there like statues. "Well, two of their Majesties. Then the Danes... they love their meat, they do."

I stand up slowly, wiping my hands against each other in a rhythmic, theatrical drag. I take my time, letting the silence itch at them. I walk right up to the new one, the one with the face like a prayer and the spine of a sapling. George.

"So," I ask, my eyes boring into his, "what are you gonna do?"

He looks confused, the poor lamb. "I thought I was supposed to be serving drinks."

"You were to be," I say, the mocking lilt in my voice echoing my mother’s old bite. I turn to Laurence, our disgruntled "darling lad", and reach out. I pat him on the shoulder, a condescending, heavy touch that tells him exactly how replaceable he is. "Little Laurence here was meant to be serving the Two King Table their meat tonight."

I shift my gaze to Sir David Graham, who’s lurking in the shadows like a vulture waiting for a heart to stop. "But some devil pulled their devil strings... and instead it’s the devil you."

George nods to Graham. They think they’re being subtle. I’ve seen better acting in a village puppet show. I turn back to the table and hoist the tray. It’s a massive, silver-laden weight, the kind of load that snaps a weak man's concentration.

Laurence snarls under his breath. "Do be careful. Heavy load, that."

"Yeah," I grunt. I step toward George. Before I let go, I stop. I pull the tray back just an inch and give him a look that’s meant to freeze the marrow in his bones. It’s the look that says: If you drop this, you aren't just dropping dinner; you’re dropping your life.

"Thank you, Chef," George says, his voice a bit thin.

I return to my station, dismissively turning my back as the boys hurry out to meet their fates. I reach for a fresh blade, but something catches the corner of my eye.

Behind the curtain of hanging herbs, bundles of lavender and drying thyme, you are moving like a ghost through the steam. You are watching me with a look that’s far too knowing for your age, a smile playing on your lips as if you find my little performance as amusing as I do.