Edda woke quite suddenly, but without any sense of being startled or disoriented. The cadence of the kitchens had not slowed around her; in fact, its pace had quickened slightly since her last awareness of it. From her place on the floor, she could see the servant women operate with practiced ease and quiet camaraderie, Marta blended seamlessly among them. Still, she found the bustle and drum of it comforting, the warmth and the movement a welcome reprieve from her night of cold, silent stillness.

  Enveloped as she was in the rich scent of the kitchens, within sight of steaming loaves of bread and simmering pots of stew, her stomach made her aware once again of its emptiness. It was not the terrible, urgent hunger she had felt before, but it was certainly hunger. A puzzling thing, that, and one that brought her no joy. Would that she never had to feel hunger again—but even beyond that, she had eaten just recently. Why did she feel the need to eat yet again?

  But there was one other thing now, a gentle, soft thing; the insistent push of something living against her uninjured hand.

  Glancing down, she saw a cat; a sleek grey creature with luminescent orange eyes peering up at her. Edda blinked, somewhat surprised to see it so calmly present in the rush of the kitchen. A single paw had been delicately extended to press upon her skin, a sensation she found not at all unpleasant. Meeting her eyes, the cat’s whiskers twitched as though in acknowledgement and, despite the ridiculousness of it, Edda found herself nodding back.

  “That’s my Korom,” a voice said beside her. She turned to see one of the servants, a woman she thought Marta had addressed as Dora, beside her. Lean and leather-faced with a steel grey braid, Dora gestured to the cat with one hand before offering Edda a bowl of dried fruit with the other, “From Ani. She’s too tart to bring it over herself, though.”

  Edda took it gratefully. Looking up at Dora from this close, Edda found her familiar—it took a second thought, but Edda reckoned that the woman had sometimes brought her and Marta’s meals. She had probably escorted Edda and the other young women to and from their chambers a few times, as well. “My thanks,” Edda murmured, wasting no time in biting into the soft, chewy morsels of apple and apricot. Her mouth watered at the sweetness, and she was reminded of the hard, saccharine cubes that had been forced into her mouth not long ago.

  “It’s rare that Korom takes to a stranger,” Dora commented, eying the cat fondly as Edda ate. From the corner of her eye, Edda saw Korom blink slowly, and then felt the animal knead its paw into her lap. Dora shifted her gaze to Edda and gave her a small smile. “Gave us all a fright earlier, fainting like that. We right near sent for a physician.”

  Edda gulped hard, meeting Dora’s eyes in a way she hoped was convincing and adding quickly, “It was only hunger.” A pulse of anxiety moved through her, and Edda quickly stuffed another piece of fruit into her mouth, as though to stem it. It was only hunger, right?

  “Some hunger, that was,” Dora replied, her smile curving somewhat grimly. She held Edda’s gaze for a moment or two longer before taking a final glance at Korom, who still sat primly at Edda’s side. Dora pursed her lips, contemplative, but seemed to decide against saying anything further. Giving a slight bow to excuse herself, she promptly rejoined the throng of activity that had continued uninterrupted around them.

  The dried fruit had been portioned so that she could not make herself sick on it, Edda noted, as her fingers scraped the bottom of the bowl not long after. She set it aside, content with her full belly and as yet unwilling to move from this place where she had found a kind of solace. Her eyes settled on Marta and traced the woman’s trajectory around the kitchen for a time. It was a relief, too, to see Marta move with her usual efficiency, to watch her focused upon the task before her in between blissfully ordinary exchanges with the other women. The simplicity of her industriousness, the mundanity of her actions—perhaps these were the only things which could have comforted Edda on this morning.

  A nudge, deliberate and demanding, alighted on her hand once more. It was Korom, paw once again stretched toward her. Edda frowned, unsure of what to do. She had never particularly interacted with cats before—she had not even known one lived in the castle, though of course it would make sense to have a handful of them about the pantry and kitchens. What could the creature possibly want of her? It stared at her expectantly, pawing her skin quite tenderly, without even a hint of the claws she knew must be there.

  Abruptly, Korom withdrew; turning tail and streaking away, straight for the large, open door at the far end of the kitchen—the one through which Edda could see the courtyard and the sunny daylight that had descended upon it. The sight of it jolted her to alertness. She sat upright quite suddenly, becoming acutely aware of the hard stone beneath her all at once. Her body had stiffened up from her awkward position on the floor, and she stumbled her way, achingly, to her feet.

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  How much time had she slept? Had she missed the wagons? Blood and bloody curses, had she missed the wagons?

  She tripped numbly over herself as she made her way to the door, knocking into a few baskets and catching herself on the long table as she went. Someone called her name—Marta, perhaps—but she needed to see for herself. If she had damned them both to another month with no blackthorn to protect them—to another month with no sleeping powder to protect her—then she needed to see it for herself.

  The cool air of early spring cut the humidity of the kitchens even before she reached the door, but stepping out into the empty courtyard sent a shiver through her far more than the chill. She pulled her cloak about her unconsciously. She stood near the castle’s inner gates, the same ones she and Marta had passed under, holding each other, as they arrived at Cachtice Castle not long ago. Now, the cobblestone expanse was completely still, a lopsided triangle enclosed on one side by the castle wall and on the other two by the castle itself. The light of a bright day illuminated most of it—but the shadows, the long shadows were cast from the walls behind and to the side of her.

  From the east, meaning it was still morning. But that did not mean the wagons had not come and gone already.

  “Miss Edda!” Marta’s hand gripped her shoulder, pulling her around so they faced each other. Marta’s cheeks were flushed from rushing after her, but her expression was stern.

  “The wagons,” Edda said before Marta could get another word in, “Have they come?” Her voice was louder than she had intended, with an almost desperate edge to it.

  “Not yet,” another voice called—an unfamiliar, masculine voice. Both women flinched in shock, heads jerking around in search of the speaker. It took but a moment to find him, for he was not far from them at all. Crouched in the shadows between the kitchen door and the castle wall, a man—or, rather, a boy—held a hand up to them in acknowledgment. He could not have been older than Edda herself; perhaps a spring or two younger. “I beg your pardon; didn’t mean to rattle you. It’s just me, Mistress Marta.”

  Marta relaxed a fraction, but only just. “Master Istvan. I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you yet this day.”

  The boy uncurled himself, seeming to grow before Edda’s eyes to a rather impressive height. As he stepped forward, the morning light catching his boyish face, something—some echo of a memory—stirred within her. “I’m awaiting the wagons,” he explained, a wide, good-natured smile stretching his face, “Help bring the goods in, and other things besides.” Edda couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw something harden behind that smile.

  Had she met him before? She frowned. If he was here, waiting to unload the wagons, he must be a servant. But he was not dressed in the forest green livery of Cachtice Castle’s household staff. His attire reminded her rather more of a workman; a linen shirt beneath a fitted doublet, and simple breeches held up by a good quality leather belt and tucked into boots of similar countenance. And now that she thought about it, she had rarely seen any servants at Cachtice Castle without grey in their hair. This boy was many springs away from silver touching his temple.

  She could not have seen him before, and yet…Was it the line of his jaw? The set of his brow? She could neither recall who he was or reason out who he must be. Even his name gave her no indication.

  Marta shot Edda a displeased glance, her ire undoubtedly dampened—or at least postponed—by the boy’s presence. “Miss Edda, I would have attended you had you simply told me you wished for some air.”

  “I…had to know about the wagons,” Edda replied weakly, before hastily tacking on, “But I am feeling quite well now. I can wait on my own.” Her eyes drifted back to the boy; she was still unable to shake the small but persistent feeling of having known him.

  Marta glowered, opening her mouth assuredly in complaint, but Istvan cut in first, “I’ll wait with her, Mistress Marta. I know Mistress Ani values your hand in the kitchen, and I’ll be here anyway.” He beamed down at Marta, having stepped close enough now to tower over the short, plump woman.

  Marta’s words faltered, but her mouth still gaped in protest. “That…” she hesitated.

  “That would be acceptable, Marta,” Edda broke in, “I can call for you through the door, if anything.” Having Marta here with her would not make the wagons come faster, nor would it spur her memory of who the boyish giant before her was. Judging from the set of Marta’s mouth, the only thing it would actually do was earn her an earful, for which Edda was not presently ready. She had much else to think about, and Istvan might prove more favourable company in that regard. She squinted up at him, somewhat awed at how he towered above even her. Who in her last life had caused her to crane her neck like this? There had not been many, of that she was sure.

  So why could she not remember who he was?

  A holler from within the kitchen—Marta’s name, in Ani’s resounding voice—perked the group up. On the spot now, Marta looked momentarily lost, swiveling toward the kitchens, then back to Edda, and to the kitchens again. “Go on,” Edda encouraged, patting Marta’s arm, “I promise you I am well, Marta.”

  Marta released a breath. “I will not be far,” she muttered, more to herself than to either of the two who accompanied her, “The door will be open.” She shot an appraising look at Istvan, then a steely one Edda’s way. She dithered, still unsure, but another bellow from the kitchens set her speedily back toward them. “I will look out at you every quarter hour!” she called behind her, “You had better stay where I can see you!”

  And then, she disappeared back into the busy, sweltering kitchens, leaving Edda alone with the boy, Istvan; a stranger to her in this life, but whose memory in her last seemed to flutter just out of reach.