The soldiers did not come for Amilia that night and she woke when breakfast was brought in—or rather was skipped across the floor on a wooden plate that spun to a stop in the middle of the room. On it were a fist-sized chunk of meat, a wedge of cheese, and thick-crusted bread. It looked wonderful and was similar to Amilia’s standard meals, courtesy of Ibis. Before coming to the palace, she had never eaten beef or venison, but now it was commonplace. Being friends with the head cook had other advantages as well. People didn’t want to offend the man who controlled their diet, so Amilia was generally well treated, except by Edith Mon. Amilia took a few bites and loudly voiced her appreciation. “This is sooooo good. Would you like some?”

The empress did not respond.

Amilia sighed. “No, I don’t suppose you would. What would you like? I can get you whatever you want.”

Amilia got to her feet, grabbed up the tray, and waited. Nothing. After a few minutes, she rapped on the door and the same guard opened it.

“Excuse me, but I have to see about getting a proper meal for Her Eminence.” The guard looked at the plate, confused, but stepped aside, leaving her to trot up the stairs.

The kitchen was still buzzing over the events of the previous night, but it stopped the moment Amilia entered the kitchen. “Sent ya back, did they?” Edith grinned. “Don’t worry, I done saved yer pile of pots. And I haven’t forgotten about that hair.”

“Hush up, Edith,” Ibis reprimanded with a scowl. Returning his attention to Amilia, he said, “Are you all right? Did they send you back?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Ibis, and no, I think I’m still the empress’s secretary—whatever that means.”

“Good for you, lassie,” Ibis told her. He turned to Edith and added, “And I’d watch what you say now. Looks like you’ll be washing that stack yourself.” Edith turned and stalked off with a humph.

“So, my dear, what does bring you here?”

“I came about this food you sent to the empress.”

Ibis looked wounded. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, it’s wonderful. I had some myself.”

“Then I don’t see—”

“Her Eminence is sick. She can’t eat this. When I didn’t feel well, my mother used to make me soup, a thin yellow broth that was easy to swallow. I was wondering, could you make something like that?”

“Sure,” Ibis told her. “Soup is easy. Someone shoulda told me she was feeling poorly. I know exactly what to make. I call it Seasick Soup. It’s the only thing the new lads kept down their first few days out. Leif, fetch me the big kettle.”