Trent adjusted his plate while he waited for me. “Thanks, Maggie. I’ll take care of the settings. It’s getting late. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kalamack,” Maggie said, clearly pleased as she rested a hand atop his shoulder. “I’ll clean up the spills before I go. More tea or coffee?”

I looked up from pushing the butter to Trent. They were both waiting for me. “Um, no,” I said as I glanced at my mug. “Thank you.”

“This is fine,” Trent echoed.

Maggie nodded as if we were doing something right before she returned to the kitchen humming. I smiled when I recognized the odd lullaby, “All the Pretty Little Horses.”

Lifting a lid to a covered container, I found it full of crushed strawberries. My eyes widened. Tiny whole ones the size of my pinky nail made a ring around the rim as if it was June, not December, and I wondered where he had gotten them. I eagerly ladled berries on top of my waffle, looking up when I realized Trent was watching me. “You want some of these?”

“When you’re done with them.”

I went to take another scoop, then hesitated. Dropping the spoon back in, I pushed them across the table. The small noise of clinking silverware seemed loud as I poured the syrup. “You do know the last man I saw in a robe, I beat into unconsciousness with a chair leg,” I quipped, desperate to break the silence.

Trent almost smiled. “I’ll be careful.”

The waffle was crisp on the outside and fluffy on the inside, easily cut with a fork. Trent used a knife. I carefully put the perfect square into my mouth so I wouldn’t dribble. “Oh God,” I said around my full mouth and giving up on manners. “Is it because we almost died that this tastes so good, or is she the best cook on earth?”

It was real butter, and the maple syrup had the dusky flavor that said it was a hundred percent real. Not two percent, not seven percent; it was real maple syrup. Remembering the stash of maple candy I once found while searching Trent’s office, I wasn’t surprised.

Trent put an elbow on the table, his eyes on his plate. “Maggie puts mayonnaise in them. It gives them an interesting texture.”

I hesitated, staring at my plate, then deciding if I couldn’t taste it, there wasn’t enough egg to worry about. “Mayonnaise?”

A faint sound of dismay came from the kitchen. “Mr. Kalamack …” Maggie came out, wiping her hands on her apron. “Don’t be giving my secrets away, or you’ll find tea leaves in your brew tomorrow,” she scolded.

Leaning to look over his shoulder, he widened his smile to become an entirely different person. “Then I’ll be able to read my fortune. Have a good night, Maggie.”

Harrumphing, she walked out, passing the sunken living room and making a left turn at the walkway overlooking the great hall. Her steps were almost soundless, and the closing of the main door was loud. Hearing running water in the new silence, I ate another bite.