Day 69, 2:45 PM

“These were happy, cheerful moments, innocent in appearance but hiding the growing possibility of disaster: this is what makes the life of lovers the most unpredictable of all..”

― Marcel Proust

The sun is high in the sky when our company returns to Eaglegord. Leaving with one hundred and fifty soldiers and returning with two hundred and fifteen is a monument to our amazing conscription, yet this success brings me no joy.

The assassin is in Eaglegord. We are in Eaglegord.

I’m walking next to Manny, our arms locked. We’re barely made ten steps into the city, and I’m already prepared to pull or push her the instant I sense that phantom stab.

I keep darting my gaze about, squinting at every shadow when Manny squeezes my arm.

“Smile.” Her mouth doesn’t open and stays locked in a victorious grin as she waves at the crowd.

Right. Smile. We returned victorious with money and able-bodied men willing to join our cause. If I walk around with my face dark like a storm-cloud, what will I look like when we suffer losses? It could impact everyone’s morale.

I wave, flashing the crowd my winning smile, teeth glinting in the bright sun like I’m a Bizney prince, and the townsfolk wave back with extra zeal.

The cheers, the crowd, all the frantic movement happening everywhere, covering one subtle gesture. A bow twangs. I snap my head left, and there he is. A minstrel tuning his lute. The luckiest fucker in the world. If I were any closer, or if I had a rock in my hand, he would’ve been a mangled corpse.

“Calm down.” Manuella tightens her grip, her smile and waves never stopping.

Death looms in every shadow, and I have to smile and wave? Are we supposed to do this all the way to the keep?

We were. The massive keep door closes, muffling the cheers, which die a natural death in the next few moments. The idiots waving and prompting them to scream and shout are out of sight, and the citizens can stop their needlessly stupid show of affection.

Lucky bastards. I can’t stop. Every single shadow in the practice yard hides danger, every inch away from Manny is an extra moment before I reach her in case cold steel pierces towards her.

Is this how kings live their lives? Constantly wondering whether a shadow is just a patch of darkness or death’s implement? Wow. Dark, poetic. I’m going bananas.

I try to smile at my own neophyte paranoia. I can’t. It’s not paranoia when someone is trying to kill your loved one and you’re just trying to guess about the how and when of it.

I could let them kill her, see what else the immediate future holds, and Redo the whole thing? I want to slap myself for my callus thinking. For some reason, I’m fine with dying myself, but just the thought of losing Manny is a cannonball to the gut.

“Are you trying to merge with me?” Manny asks and I realize I’m pressing against her, steering her sideways.

“Sorry.”

Manny cups my cheek, and the soldiers shuffle around us, pretending we’re not there, each nonchalantly going about their business. Today that means eating and resting.

“Shall we have lunch?”

“I’ll cook. Let’s sneak into the kitchen.”

Why did I get the idiot look again?

Five minutes later, I know why. There are three people in the sweltering kitchen, preparing food for us.

“Slower,” a fat, gray-haired chef stirring a pot chides the boy turning a chicken on a spit.

He hasn’t spotted us yet, and neither has the kid wiping the sweat off his brows. The thirty-year-old kitchen maid scrubbing a cauldron, however, gapes at us. The woman is wet, her thin, greasy shirt soaked, hiding nothing, and her mouth open in a silent gasp, wide enough to fit a whole egg.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

She never dreamed the duchess would visit the kitchen, let alone enter through the servants’ entrance.

I’m slightly amused, but my attention focuses on the aroma of fresh bread wafting out of the brick oven. The massive oven is too close to the black stove where the cook is stirring.

I’ll have trouble fitting in there. As that thought crops up, I notice a chip in the oven’s decorative arc, right at the edge of the stove. Apparently, I’m not the first one to consider, wrongly, that two people can fit there.

“Do you mind if I borrow a pan and fry some eggs?”

The cook jumps and looks at me. He’s ready to shout, then he realizes who I am, and who’s the woman in front of me.

“Not at all, your lordship.” The cook folds his arms, clutching his wooden mixing spoon like a club. He’s looking at me like I’m an invader out to pillage his home. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he really thinks.

“Thanks!” I act oblivious to the obvious hostility birthed by my request. For all I know, he could be angry with whatever he was stirring or he hates the boy who stopped spinning the chicken just because a duchess waltzed into his workplace.

I sidestep Manny without glancing at her and stride for the stove.

“I need a pan, some lard, seven eggs…”

Miss wet shirt abandons her cauldron and fetches what I asked. I put a bit of lard in the pan to melt, then realize this isn’t non-stick modern cookware and plop a hefty mound of lard onto the metal.

The lard slowly melts on the stove while I break seven eggs in smooth, single-handed motions, aided by my agility. I glance at Manny. The corners of her lips are trembling, but she’s maintaining a serious pose, her arms crossed, matching the old cook.

“What are you looking at?” He smacks the kitchen boy on the back of his head. “You’ll burn the chicken!”

I whisk the eggs like a pro that I am. Back in Chillago, I used to fix dozen-egg omelets for Sunday breakfast. There’s no blue-veined cheese, but finely chopped cured meat, mushrooms, and pepper-like veggies ought to do the trick.

The lard melts and sizzles as I start chopping the peppers into thin rings. In the corner of my eye, I notice the cook scratching his chin, examining my work with moderate approval.

The meat is salty enough.

I taste each ingredient and pour the eggs and meat into the pan and the pinky-thick layer of lard hisses.

I need to teach them how to make hard cheeses. Then I realize I don’t know how to make hard cheese; or any cheese, for that matter.

Mushrooms and peppers go in next, and half a minute later, just as the mushrooms start seeping water, the omelet is done.

I put a third on one plate for Manny, two thirds on another for myself, and then it clicks to me that I’ve left Manny unguarded for almost ten minutes.

My head spins from the sudden realization, and I look around. We already doffed our armors. The kitchen doors are closed, and no assassins have appeared in the cauldrons or in the brightly lit, messy corners.

“Is everything all right?” Manny asks, and I flash her a smile.

“Perfect. Come, eat it while it’s hot.”

“Here?” Four people yelp at the same time, staring at me.

“Yeah, sure. It’s better hot. Dig in.”

My mail clicks as I sit at the table I chopped the food on, and Manny walks over to me. The cook is running, frantically wiping a chair while carrying it over for his duchess. Luckily, the man doesn’t trip and break his neck as he slams the chair next to me. The plate is steaming as she sits down and sniffs her food.

“Smells delicious.”

“You’re just hungry.” I stuff a spoonful into my mouth.

The meat is a bit chewy, needs something drier or softer, but the peppers are perfectly crispy and the mushrooms are divine.

Manny half-fills her spoon and as soon as the food enters her mouth she closes her eyes and nods. She carefully chews her food and swallows.

“This is really good.”

“Well, it could’ve been better. If I had cheese I could have folded it and let the cheese melt.” Like usual, Blunt says the first thing that comes to my mind.

I’m doing the same thing Mary always did when I complimented her cooking.

I clear my throat. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it. I’ll try to make it even better next time.”

“Next time?” the maid squeaks and the cook grumbles the exact same words.

“I would like that.” Manny ignores them, and enjoys my little experiment.

We’re back in our room some two hours before sunset. Manny turns on the lantern, and I pull the curtain closed.

“I will now reward you for your delicious meal.”

“It was just an omelet,” Blunt says, and I want to slap it. Never say no to well-deserved praise and perks.

Fortunately, Manny knows about my eccentricity and doesn’t mind my remark.

She strips for me, slowly, and makes a show of washing herself. I gulp. She’s a goddess.

“I am tired from marching in armor for days on end. Would you give me a massage?” I don’t know if she really wants a massage or if she’s teasing me and this is all her foreplay. I don’t care. We can do both. My heart is pounding, blood is rushing to both my heads, and the assassin is tossed in the black void of the back of my mind. If the unlucky bastard appears now, in this cramped room, he’ll become a bloodstain before he takes his shot.

Manny lies on the bed, wiggling her eager, exposed backside as I tear my way out of my clothes.

“Slow down.” She giggles after I rip the fabric for the second time.

I climb on top of her, kiss her breathtaking nape, and start kneading her shoulders.