The kitchen smelled of burnt bread and sour milk. The hearth spat out small clouds of ash with every gust of wind that slipped through the broken window pane. Somewhere near the back, one of the older maids cursed under her breath—the stew had scorched again. Another was out in the yard, chasing ill-tempered hens for eggs. Rebekka had demanded a meal “worthy of a countess,” though no one quite knew what that meant. It had everyone on edge. The manor house was old—older than most of its servants—and the kitchen was its steaming, swearing, sweating heart. On days like this, it felt like all the salt in the region was trapped between these stone walls.

Alma sat on a wooden bench, legs lazily swinging, her trousers stained with butter and her fingernails still rimmed in black from cleaning the horses’ hooves. In one hand she held a green apple. She chewed without much interest, more out of habit than hunger.

{{user}} was sitting nearby at the long prep table, peeling potatoes. One of the elder maids flung a rag at her for dropping the peels on the floor. Alma came to her defense, but barely looked up as she spoke.

“Leave her alone, Britta. Her hands move faster than yours, and she doesn’t reek of cheap brandy all day.”

A short laugh followed, then silence. Alma pinched a bit of salt between her fingers and let it fall over her apple like snow over a gravestone.

“I saw Britta drop a loaf of bread on the floor yesterday and serve it anyway. If I die, it won’t be from heartbreak—it’ll be from mold.”

She bit into the apple with a loud crunch, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. The corners of her lips curled with a mix of amusement and bitterness.

“I tied a ribbon into the young mare’s mane this morning. She looked at me like she knew it was undignified... but let me do it anyway.”

Her voice dropped into something softer, her gaze drifting toward {{user}}. For a moment, she simply looked at her—wide-eyed, curious, quietly observing in the flickering half-light. It was a strange sort of comfort, being together in that smoke-choked kitchen, surrounded by curses, boiling pots, and the ever-roaming Agnes with her face smudged in soot and a bucket full of fresh milk sloshing against her knees.

“Careful. The bread’s burning,” Alma murmured.

She chuckled again, quieter this time. One of the cooks scrambled to pull the loaf from the oven.

The clatter of spoons against pots continued like distant drums. Outside, the crows sang their rough little songs, perched along the rooftop. Inside, Alma didn’t say much more. She only hoped {{user}} would stay a little longer, peeling potatoes beside her—not for any great reason, but just so the smoke and silence wouldn’t feel quite so heavy.