“Oh, it can’t be as bad as all that. Come on, can’t I interest you in some soup? I make a pretty mean vegetable barley, if I do say so myself.”

“You know I love your food. It’s just that my stomach is in knots. I noticed a gray hair in the mirror the other day.”

“Oh please, you’re still just a girl,” Ibis laughed, then caught himself. “I guess I shouldn’t speak to you that way, you being noble and all. I should be saying, ‘Yes, Your Ladyship,’ or in this case, ‘No, no, Your Ladyship! If you’ll allow me to be so bold as to speak plainly in your presence, I beg to differ, for I think you’re purty as a pot!’ That would be a more proper response.”

Amilia smiled. “You know, I never have understood that saying of yours.”

Ibis drew himself up in feigned offense. “I’m a cook. I like pots.” He chuckled. “Have some soup. Something warm in your belly will help untie some of those knots, eh?”

She glanced at the pot he was stirring and grimaced. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh no, not this. Great Maribor, no! I’ll make you something good.”

Amilia looked relieved. “What is that you’re making? It smells like rotten eggs.”

“Soup, but it’s barely fit for animals, made with all the worst parts of old leftovers. The smell comes from this horrid yellow powder I have to use. I try to dress it up as best I can. I throw some celery and spices in, just to ease my conscience.”

“Who’s it for?”

“I’ve no idea but in a little while a couple of guards will come by and take it. To be honest … I’m afraid to ask where it goes.” He paused. “Amilia, what’s wrong?”

Amilia stared at the big pot, her mouth partially open. Noise on the stairs caught her attention. Two men entered the kitchen. She knew them by sight. They were guards normally assigned to the east wing’s fourth-floor hall—the administration corridor, where she and Saldur worked. They recognized her as well and took a moment to bow. Amilia graciously inclined her head in response. Their looks revealed they found this courtesy odd but appreciated it. Then they turned to Ibis.

“All done?”

“Just a sec, just a sec,” he muttered. “You’re early.”

“We’ve been on duty since dawn,” one of the guards complained. “This is the last job of the night. Honestly, I don’t know why you put such effort into it, Thinly.”

“It’s what I do, and I want it done right.”

“Trust me, no one is going to complain. Nobody cares.”

“I care,” Ibis remarked, his voice sharp enough to end the subject.

The guard shrugged his shoulders and waited.

“Who’s the soup for?” Amilia asked.

The guard hesitated. “Not really supposed to talk about that, milady.”