“Scrub those.” I stood at the side of the kitchen. Sweat accumulated on my top lip, and the persistent stench of stewed cabbage had started to curl the ends of my hair. Steam had fogged the skylight windows above. Copper pots on the gas stoves still bubbled, and orange, green and yellow peelings littered the adjacent worktops like scattered leaves. The grand meal in the Great Hall had apparently happened and finished, and my fellow colleagues scattered about like frantic ants, completing their end duties. But the end of the celebration meant more work had to be done. And that meant washing up. “That's not my job,” I said. Chef sprung and clawed his fingers into the cotton collar of my shirt, lifting me an inch off the ground. “You're under my employment,” he growled, his breath hot and more bitter than the cabbage. “So do as I say. Or would you like me to request your dismissal from the court?” “No, Chef, I would not like that.” “Excellent.” Chef straightened his black toque Blanche. “Now get.” The big fella left me by the four copper sinks alone like a lemon. Filthy plates, bowls and silver pitchers stacked high. The crockery leaned precariously like that famous tower from that place, and I gently prodded the structure, just to see how much it wobbled. Quite a bit, it seemed. Semi-confident the water wouldn't cause blisters and boil the skin from my bones, I began to scrub. Bits of golden sweetcorn and slivers of carrot plopped into the water, and as I washed—thinking thoroughly about my existence—something slimy skimmed my hand. “Oh, come on, that’s—!” I cried. “Reyes!” Mary appeared from a cloud of steam. She clutched a stack of plates in her arms and wore a new splodge of foodstuff on the collar of her white shirt. “There you are. Where did you go?” “Huh?” I swirled my hand in the drink and a spray of soap bubbles splattered the sides.“When?” “Earlier, lazy snob. I had to carry out your load of platters as well as mine.” “Oh, sorry. I don’t really remember, but Chef caught me. He's making me wash up. Can you believe that?” Mary scrunched her nose, lowering her load onto the corner of the sink with a clang. “Well, aren't you a lucky ducky as I have some more. Founds them by the walled garden—your favourite spot. You didn't sneak a snack, did you?” Her cheeks blushed pink, but probably from the heat. “Or meet anyone?” I shrugged. “There’s no one to meet. Hey, do you want to swap? You wash up, and I'll do whatever you were doing?” Mary’s lips parted which then turned into a smile, and she elbowed me. “Nice try, but meal’s ended. Everyone’s slightly squiffy and sleepy with big, full bellies. I think the Duke even tried to take a nap behind one of the curtains—quite adorable.” “Right...” I slid the new additions into the water. Her idea of adorable was most definitely different to mine. Kittens, tiny cacti and snowflakes... I'd die for. But a sweaty, conceited old Duke, not so much. His daughter, however... “I’ll leave you to it then,” Mary said. She looked like she wanted to say more, but I didn't press. I nodded. “Alright.” “You don't want me to stay?” I lifted one of Mary’s plates, and a handful of cutlery skidded slightly on its surface. “Only if you do this for me.” Like Chef, she left me by the sinks, with the remainder of the dishes she'd kindly brought. I reached for the rest, but my hand stopped, hovering over an odd-looking knife. Pinching it by the onyx handle, I lifted it from the plate. A peculiar ruby bead slipped down the knifes golden edge and dropped into the water. Red swirled, popping the bubbles, and I watched as the apparent blood sank deeper and deeper until all that was left was my shimmering reflection staring back. “Wait!” I called out. “Mary, where was the meat?” “We had no meat,” she said. She grabbed a peeled carrot and swung it around by its leafy-green top. “We are celebrating the harvest, doofus. Fruities and veggies only. Do you remember nothing?” “Fruities and veggies only,” I mumbled, but that meant... The metal slipped from my fingers, drowning in the water. It couldn't be. The big fella stood by the open pages of his recipe book, his thin nibbed quill a needle in his enormous hands. “I’m busy, Reyes.” he mumbled. “Sure. But one question, the menu, was it strictly fruities—” I stopped myself, I couldn't say that. “Speak.” “Right. Was it strictly fruits and vegetables? No bloody animals?” A sharp cuff to my ear brought me back, and I winched as pain throbbed across my cheek. “I asked you to scrub the pots, not that tiny brain of yours. Yes,” he said slowly, loudly, “the harvest equals fruit and vegetables only. No meat. Comprende?” Heat that had nothing to do with the stove fires burned hot like a blacksmiths iron poker, and I had an abrupt idea of where that bloodied knife would fit best next. No. I shook my head—chased away the devils. That wasn't very nice. Chef may have been a cabbage eating slug, but even slugs deserved a life. “Oh, si,” I said. “Lo entiendo, gran perdedor tonto.” After a moment, Chef said, “Whatever.” And shoved me away. So, I thought, and I thought hard. We had no meat. No animal’s blood. And unless it was beetroot—which I found impossible seeing as we had none—we had no other plant-based matter that could create such a stain. But there were mammalian, human ones. A bell tolled, and heads suddenly looked up, eyes wide and spooked like a tree full of owls. The mournful wail of the bell proceeded its cry throughout the manor, and, deep down, from somewhere inside, I knew something was wrong. Under the kitchens stone archway, the door whirled open, jittering on its hinges. A boy thundered down the steps, his red tabard askew, his blazing orange curls amok. “Lady Patrice.” he panted. “She's dead. Found by the walled garden. Stabbed!” A chuckle bubbled, and I clamped my mouth shut, my delirium popping like the suds in the sink. No... I must have misheard, and the bell’s gloomy tones meant nothing. Yeah, yeah, that was it. The bell meant nothing, and the boy hadn’t said she’s dead but... But she's in bed. In bed. Dead. Something smashed within the kitchen, a few people screamed, and someone began to weep. “Dead?” Chef asked, and the boy bobbed his head, slumping against the wall. “Alright, someone grab the boy a drink,” Chef ordered. “And everyone, calm down!” Mary came from behind, pale as a spectators soul, and I jumped. “Isn’t that who you fancy—fancied—Rey?” She whispered, her elbow brushing mine. “What! No.” I lied. But my numbed hands and the cord that had tightened around my throat uttered the truth. I did, and gods, now she was dead. And I couldn't help but think her murder weapon was in the sink with my cursed fingerprints on it.