Lila
I wasn’t supposed to be in the servants’ corridor, not this late, not alone, and definitely not lingering near the warm sliver of light spilling from the kitchen doors.
But I’d heard them. A pastry maid and one of the older chefs, speaking in hushed tones over cooling racks and sugar-glazed parchment.
“He hasn’t requested them in years,” the cook said, pulling something golden from the oven. “Not since his mother died, I’d wager.”
The pastry maid nodded, eyes a little too round. “But he used to ask for them every week. Would sit at the edge of the counter and steal them hot.”
“What were they again?” the cook mused. “Cardamom buns?”
“No. Spiced hazelnut tarts. Honey in the crust. A bit of orange zest. Not too sweet. He liked the ones with the caramel cracked on top—said they r
