A/N: Okay, so this is a long chapter. In my defense, I had to add a scene at the last minute (which my beta reader, code name Tom, was kind enough to ghost-write the first draft of. So really, this 5k chapter is only 87% my fault.
Chapter 3 Content Warnings: reference to previous chapter, reference to mysterious parent death, reference to missing meals, slight prince/servant power differential
Chapter 3: no one likes a mad woman
Caspian
Caspian wakes in the middle of the night with the dream of his father's murder pressing bright behind his eyelids. It's not unusual, but it's draining. He can only take so many imaginings of his parents' deaths.
If Caspian tries to sleep again so soon, he will face more of the same. He'll see their deaths and wake with the knowledge they remain unavenged, their murderer still cloaked in mystery. Miraz could be the killer, or one of his men, or someone else. To his shame, Caspian still can't say for sure.
Caspian rises and takes to his study, the scrolls of star charts a familiar comfort. Doctor Cornelius insisted he memorise all Narnia's major constellations along with their Telmarine names, no doubt so he'll be ready with the right answers whenever his uncle asks. With Miraz in power, there are no seafaring voyages on the horizon. What good are the stars when he's locked away in a castle?
After half an hour, Caspian gives up on tracing the shapes hidden in the stars and turns his mind to the week's politicking. The details and planning never end, and he'll need every choice detail he can get to marshal even half so many allies as his uncle. Unfortunately, he's had few optimistic insights of late.
Sopespian has his hooks in Glozelle now. It was supposedly a chance encounter, nothing more than the two bumping into each other in the corridor. But Caspian knows better than most the weight of secrets and intrigue, and a military man clinging to his traditional notions of honour doesn't have the same skill for hiding things. Caspian knew just from Glozelle's glance - how it lingered on Sopespian like a question and a warning, how the general's shoulders took on a tense line under his armour. How Sopespian walked by with that infernal smirk. Lord Sopespian is always walking around smirking, as if he knows a million machinations no one could guess.
Caspian can guess at most of them; Sopespian is not so sneaky and brilliant as he imagines himself, but even arrogant, slippery blusterers have their dangers. Sopespian has his army, after all. He calls them his "chosen men," as if he's graciously accepted their loyalty rather than bought it. As if any loyalty without a real choice beyond starvation bears any weight.
It won't, hopefully, but the longer Sopespian believes that, the better. All things in their time, though Caspian doesn't yet know the right time to expose Sopespian's treason. Most likely, Sopespian is mixed up in his uncle Miraz's plotting. Yet Sopespian seems too slippery to commit to any cause other than his own.
Caspian stares out his study window, running his fingers over the carvings on his desk. Tarva is strong in the night sky still, but Alambil is already fading. Incrementally, barely enough to notice. If he looks long enough, Caspian would swear by all Doctor Cornelius' tales that the Lady of Victory is in retreat.
His stomach growls. The rolling grumble is so loud, so ridiculous amid his musings of politics and successions and wondering which lord will try to stab him in his sleep when the time comes that Caspian can't help laughing. He's not known for his punctuality with mealtimes, but he's skipped more than he should of late .
It's not an easy thing, sitting down to sup with his uncle, the last blood family he has and the same man somehow connected with his parents' deaths. Lord Rivurn expired at his own dinner table not two years ago, frothing at the mouth and choking on air; perhaps memories of that eventful visit has coloured Caspian's dreams.
Caspian clutches the back of the chair harder, harder, until something snaps and a carving of an eagle's wing rests in his palm. His palm stings where the jagged edge digs in, jolting him from his reverie. In his shock, Caspian drops the wing; it falls to the floor with a clatter.
He needs to eat. Yes, that should help. A hearty meal, or whatever he can scrounge up at this hour. Anything to keep his stomach quiet so he can avoid the Professor's knowing gaze - not angry, not quite judgmental, but the worst of disappointment and understanding.
Caspian stuffs his tired feet back into his boots. It's closer to dawn than it was last time he made his way to the kitchens, but it's still unlikely enough he'll run into anyone that Caspian doesn't bother with his overshirt. His trousers, nightshirt, and boots should suffice to appear decent in the halls.
Perhaps this time the kitchen will be appropriately deserted.
Another pang of hunger strikes as Caspian makes his way down the dimly lit corridor. No matter how many times he walks these dark halls, he'll never be at ease among the shadows.
Halfway to the kitchen, Caspian nearly runs headlong into a guard patrol as he turns a corner. One reaches for his blade before the other recognises him and lays a restraining hand on his companion's shoulder.
Caspian straightens his spine. He didn't bother with layering chainmail under his nightshirt, and he'll never make such a mistake again. Never mind that the taller of the two gives an appropriately deferential nod. Never mind that the shorter guard with the half-drawn blade is sliding his sword back into its scabbard. That sneer, that mocking shallow bow… it would be unsettling at the best of times.
Here, amid the dark of night, Caspian wishes he'd thought to bring his sword. He'll keep a spare in his chambers and at his hip from now on.
"Your Highness," says the more respectful guard, his right hand snapping to his forehead in a crisp salute.
Caspian nods in acknowledgment; he doesn't trust his voice. The guards move off down the hall, armour echoing as the torchlight casts deeper shadows over the walls. Caspian continues on his way, though he softens his footsteps, listening carefully to be certain neither of them circle back. It wouldn't be so difficult to claim it was an accident, and Miraz would surely congratulate the deed in private.
He must adhere to mealtimes. For those times he can't, Caspian will never walk these halls so unprotected again. He should have known better.
Caspian spends the rest of the walk to the kitchen with tense shoulders and clenched fists. His empty belly aches, as though tonight's encounter wasn't punishment enough.
Caspian waits until the courtyard patrol nears the far gate before ducking through the shadows and into the kitchen.
A flickering lantern illuminates the same servant girl from his previous visit. She stands stiffly at the counter, her knife thunking heavily into the cutting board.
She's already turning as Caspian pushes the door open fully, hair whirling as her wide eyes snap to his. There's something inscrutable in her expression, in the slight step she takes away from the counter, the small kitchen knife held tight in her grip gleaming beside the half-chopped parsnips on the board. She doesn't smile.
They're alone.
Caspian wonders if he does look thievish now, with his fists tight and his shoulders hunched from skulking around in the castle's shadows. Perhaps that's why she still hasn't dropped the knife, though she's not pointing it at him. Caspian forces his hands open and relaxes his shoulders as he gingerly closes the door behind him.
"Good evening," Caspian says. "I'm sorry to trouble you."
"Morning," she replies, stepping back against the counter. "It'll be dawn in an hour."
It's far too early for the day's work to start; Caspian thought the castle didn't wake until dawn. He usually wakes after sunrise.
"What do you want?" she asks.
Caspian straightens and clasps his hands behind his back. Did he offend her last time for her to treat him so coldly?
"I missed dinner," Caspian confesses. "I hoped to avail myself of the larder. Again."
His stomach punctuates the stiff silence with a loud rumble.
The servant girl's fingers loosen around the knife's handle. "Stay there."
Caspian never intended to do otherwise, though he has the sense not to say so. Instead, he asks for her name.
The servant says nothing as she disappears first into the larder, then into the pantry. She keeps the door between them.
Very well; better not to push her. Caspian uses the time to observe the kitchen. He rarely ventures here, and last time he was too preoccupied to pay much attention. It's not so dirty as he imagined, and the air is thick with lingering aromas from yesterday's meals - venison stew and fresh-baked bread, if Caspian's nose is correct. His stomach complains again, though the girl's rustling covers the sound.
The servant reappears with a wineskin and a cloth bound by the corners, half a coarse bread loaf stuffed with roughly sliced salted meat peeking from the top. With a cautious stare heavy between them, she wordlessly slides the package down the counter and turns back to her work. Caspian barely catches his food before it slips off the edge.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
The girl watches him from the corner of her eye, her knife hovering over the next parsnip.
Clearly, Caspian has overstayed his welcome. His fingers close around the door handle with every intent of leaving her be.
Clanking footsteps sound nearby.
Caspian's fingers fall away. He's already tempted fate tonight, and as little as this servant girl wants him here, she poses far less threat than two trained, armed soldiers.
Caspian sets his food on the edge of the counter. The girl resumes chopping more methodically than before. Wise, given her split attention.
He finds an apple and a piece of crumbling cheese with the bread and meat. It's rude to eat alone, so Caspian tears off a chunk of the loaf and offers it to the servant.
He still doesn't know her name.
"Too coarse for you?"
Caspian startles under the weight of her glare.
"No, that's not - I meant no insult."
The girl arches a thick eyebrow, her knife stalling above the parsnip. "What did you mean, then? This is the second time you've come sniffing around in the dead of night."
Caspian's neck flames. "Morning," he says. It's less than an hour until dawn now; she said so herself.
Her jaw works to one side. "Either way, thief, you're causing trouble."
"I assure you, I don't intend to." Caspian swallows a poorly masticated bite of cheese, the tang of well-aged cheddar bright across his tongue. "I can leave a note if that would help?"
"How thoughtful," she says, in one of those tones meaning precisely the opposite.
Caspian falls silent. He finishes his meal in a hurry and empties the crumbs into the waste bucket across the kitchen. There's a second one by the servant girl, but she's back to chopping and it's best not to intrude on her space.
When he listens at the door and hears no nearby guards, Caspian turns to her one last time. The tentative light of early dawn illuminates her tense features, the unforgiving line of her mouth.
"I apologise for my intrusion," Caspian says. "I'll ensure it does not happen again."
She turns, her eyes catching his cautious glance. Perhaps it's only his imagination, but the set of her jaw seems to soften.
It's best they not meet again.
Yet Caspian wishes, fleetingly, that he knew her name.
Addie
"Look, if you want me to apologise, say so. Just stop sulking."
Addie stares incredulously. First he followed her back to her room last night, and now he's intruding well after midnight after she screamed herself awake dreaming of the last time they were alone?
It's strange how a week ago, she might have laughed at his nerve. It's strange how her body trembles now, how easily her hands betray her fear. She thought these past days of silence would help more than they have.
Addie grinds the pestle harder into the bowl and bites her cheek until she tastes coppery blood. Fear is useless; fear won't help her forget. Fear won't erase that night or the sour taste coating her teeth. Addie rinses her mouth every chance she gets, and still that damned taste of bile and soured ale lingers.
One of Marcos' worst vices is not knowing when to shut up.
"Wasn't that bad, was it?"
Addie's stomach lifts halfway into her diaphragm. "Wasn't that bad?" she repeats. "That's what you think the problem was? I didn't enjoy myself?"
Marcos shrugs, hands perched on his hips as he looks everywhere but at her. Given that they're alone in the kitchen, the door is closed, and it's half past midnight, it's not so nonchalant as he's trying for.
"I mixed the drink too strong," he says. "Should've checked you were feeling okay. Getting sick's no fun."
Addie abandons the mortar and pestle and the porridge grain. "You think I'm upset over the drink?"
"It probably didn't help." Marcos fumbles his hands by his belt, his elbow bumping the door.
The pot at the hearth boils over, sending water hissing into the flames. Addie uses the disruption as an excuse to put the fire between them, to relish the weight of the fire poker against her palm as she prods the spluttering coals back to life.
"If you don't understand," Addie says, "then I have nothing else to say to you. Get out."
Marcos scoffs, as if this is nothing more than one of their childish spats born of too little sleep and one too many jokes. "Don't be like that. I can't make it right if I don't know what's wrong, Addie!"
Addie grips the poker until the iron grinds against bones in her palm. She nearly restrains herself, nearly corrals her tongue behind her teeth as she focuses on moving the pot and reviving the fire.
"C'mon, talk to me. You'll feel better."
In her defence, Addie muses as she starts to yell vicious things at him, Marcos is in no position to presume what could make her feel better.
In her defence, Marcos has already presumed far, far too much.
Caspian
Caspian puts on his chainmail under his shirt and straps a dagger at his hip before he slips into the hall. After last week's tense encounters, he'd rather not tempt fate again.
His stomach rumbles with no care for stealth or caution. Caspian stuck to regular mealtimes for a few days, but after he mixed up Calormen kings - the Calormens call them Tisrocs - and Miraz relished saying how disappointed Caspian's father would be, Caspian couldn't force himself to sit through dinner.
He knows so little of his father. But even from such scraps, Caspian can't reassure himself that his uncle is wrong.
The thought is unbearable.
Caspian winds his way to the kitchen. He'll only intrude if it's empty; if the servant girl is there again, he'll make do until breakfast. He can't do much in this castle, but he can keep his word.
Caspian finds the kitchen bright with firelight and voices. He ought to turn back, return to his chambers, and rue his improper timing.
The kitchen is not quiet. Where Caspian expected the steady thunk of a knife on a cutting board, perhaps the rustle and flare of a hearth well-tended, he finds a shouting match. He doesn't know the man's voice. He knows the girl's.
Such noise should attract the patrol, but when Caspian looks for the usual pair, he finds both leaning against the well trading coins and closer to amused than concerned.
If they won't intervene, then he must.
"I would have forgiven anything," she yells. "Anything, everything but -"
Caspian palms open the half-shut door and there stands the girl from his last two nighttime visits. She notices his entrance at once, her gaze flashing to meet his. The man with her only briefly glances at Caspian's interruption before turning back to the girl.
Caspian bows shallowly, keeping the other man in his peripheral vision. A soldier, judging by his stance and spurred boots.
"Forgive my intrusion," Caspian says, only to her.
"Not at all," says the girl. The blazing hearth reflects something like relief in her brown eyes. "What can I get you?"
Caspian finds a gentle smile for her, though his right hand stays close at his hip and the dagger hidden there. "Whatever is the least trouble."
The soldier looks between the two of them in disbelief.
"Addie, since when -"
"Do you want meat with the cheese, or only bread?" The servant girl - Addie - asks as she hastens to the larder. Her fingers momentarily fumble at the handle, betraying her nerves.
"So that's it then?" the soldier steps between them before Caspian can respond, pointing accusingly toward Caspian.
She doesn't even look at him; she keeps her eyes locked on Caspian, a bright smile plastered across her face. "My lord?"
Caspian only breaks eye contact to stare down the incredulous soldier.
He turns to Caspian with a mocking bow. "Your Highness." The soldier stomps out without another word, slamming the door shut behind him.
Addie flinches, but otherwise she doesn't falter.
Caspian softens his straightened shoulders and the authoritative bearing he donned in front of the soldier. "Whatever you like," Caspian answers. "Whatever's no trouble."
The servant girl -
Addie. Her name is Addie.
Addie nods once, disappears into the pantry, and returns with bread and an apple. She holds both out to him. "Still can't catch proper mealtimes?"
"Not so often as I ought." Caspian takes both loaf and apple and uses the gentlest tone he knows. "I thank you. Are you well?"
Her smile wavers. "I'm not the one filching food at half past midnight."
"Yet you are working," Caspian counters. "Is there so much to be done?"
"You wouldn't know, would you?" Addie turns to the pot she left on the counter. Before Caspian can offer to help, she's lifted it back over the fire and started coaxing the flames high again.
She's right, but it'd be rude to say so. Caspian alternates between bites of bread and apple.
"May I know your name?" Technically he already does, but it's polite to ask. Addie might not be her preference.
Addie sniffs and balances the tip of the fire poker on the floor with her hands resting atop the handle. "You born with those stiff manners, or did they come naturally?"
Of all the-
He's trying to be polite after helping her out of an awkward situation. She needn't needle him for it. Caspian pushes his shoulders back the slightest bit and stands taller with the counter at his back.
"Born with mine," he answers after swallowing another mouthful of apple. "I assume you learned yours."
"I never bothered learning."
"Yes," Caspian says, "I noticed."
The flickering quirk of her mouth must be his imagination. Yet when she meets his eyes again, her gaze is kinder.
On impulse, Caspian tears off a fist-sized hunk of bread and offers it to her.
To his surprise, she takes it.
It's an accident, the brush of their fingertips. Better to pretend he didn't notice.
"I'm Addie," she says at last. "Adelina, if your manners need a full name. And you? What title does Mr - His Highness prefer?"
She says 'Highness' like it's a dirty word.
Like she's testing him.
Caspian hesitates, sucking a bit of bread from his back tooth. Ridiculous as it is, hearing his title from her mouth doesn't sit right in his stomach. They're alone together in the castle kitchen after midnight, sharing a snack he only asked for to break up whatever fight she and that soldier were having. His title is too formal for such circumstances.
"Just Caspian. This hardly seems the place for titles."
Addie looks him up and down so blatantly Caspian almost steps back before he realises that would only aid her visual exploration.
"Any objection to sitting on the floor?" Firelight flickers in Addie's brown eyes, casting dancing shadows over her arched eyebrows. Her eyes flick to the ground, daring him.
Leaving feels like admitting defeat, like giving ground. In their two meetings, this has been her domain - her little kingdom of the night, and Caspian is all too aware he's a guest in it despite the crown to his name.
More importantly, there's no telling if that soldier will come back, or if that patrol might finally investigate.
"None."
Addie nods, ducks into the pantry again, and emerges with another half loaf. Caspian sits cross-legged on the floor a moment before she does. He wouldn't eat off the floor, but the bread balances well on his knee.
How highly improper.
Yet Caspian gets the distinct impression that refusing this odd seating would have been far more inexcusable.
They eat in silence with only the hearth and shadows for company. Addie glances back to the pot of water every so often. It simmers at the edge of hearing, never overflowing.
The longer the quiet stretches, the more Caspian finds his spine loosening. There's something companionable about eating with this woman by firelight, despite the night's tumultuous beginnings.
When he's finished the apple in his hand, Caspian takes in Addie's stiff posture and asks a question he feels he already knows the answer to. "Has that soldier bothered you before?"
Addie brushes crumbs from her skirt and does not meet his gaze. "Depends on your meaning. We were friends not so long ago."
"I'm sorry." Caspian's leg tingles from the angle, but he'd better not rise to his feet until she does. It might appear intimidating.
He, at least, can maintain some shred of etiquette between them.
Addie shrugs. "Not your doing. It'll pass." She finishes her bread quickly, so Caspian hurries through his victuals too.
She stands the moment he finishes. Given Addie's current record for manners, he isn't surprised she didn't let him rise first and offer his hand. It might be considered a miracle she had the courtesy to stay seated until he finished eating.
In fairness, he too might struggle with manners if his night began as hers did.
Caspian brushes bread crumbs from his trousers, grateful for his sated stomach.
"Is there anything I can do?"
Addie's answer is her hand, extended to him as her eyes glint hard as steel.
It's not proper. It's not polite. But Addie's made it clear she holds neither concern in high esteem.
Caspian reaches up and takes her hand.
She's warmer than he thought she'd be. Stronger, too - she rights him with little effort, just a quick step, a rock back onto her heels, a tug, and he's up.
She smiles, victory transforming the daring twist of her mouth into a kinder curve. "Goodnight, Your Highness."
Caspian inhales, steps back toward the main door, and lets her hand go. "Goodnight Addie. Truly, just Caspian is fine."
"Goodnight then, Caspian."
He waits until the next patrol passes before obliging. Fortunately, Addie doesn't seem to mind.
The next morning at breakfast, Caspian asks his Aunt Prunaprismia how one might go about getting servants reassigned. Thankfully, it's a simple enough matter. With his aunt's blessing, he pays a visit to the headmistress of the castle kitchen and arranges for Addie to be sent to his study to join his other chambermaid, Bruna. She cleans his chambers during the day, so there's little chance of running into Addie. It will keep Addie out of that soldier's path.
Caspian tried to convince his uncle to reassign the soldier, but with only an accusation and no name, Miraz snarled that Caspian should not bother with such trifling affairs, and no matter how Caspian tried, his uncle would not change his mind. The best thing would have been sending the soldier out of the castle, perhaps to join the city gate guard. But Miraz was unmoved, and until Caspian finds out the soldier's name, he can't go to the Captain of the Guard and insist on it himself.
Perhaps Addie knows? Perhaps she'll tell him, and perhaps Glozelle is not so crooked yet as to ignore an order from his prince.
Caspian goes off to his lessons in a determined mood and thinks of nothing but memorising the next chunk of diplomatic history with Calormen and the legend of Queen Susan's horn until he arrives back at his chambers just before supper and finds Addie standing right in the middle of his immaculate room, hands on her hips and scowl firm on her face.
"What in Tash's hells has come over you?" she seethes before he even closes the door.
Caspian blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
"You don't have it. What did you do?"
He's done many things since breakfast, though Caspian doesn't say so. He steps forward only as much as he needs to swing the door closed. "You're angry."
"Of course I am!" Addie snaps, her eyes glinting in the candlelight. "I realise you lords and princelings have little occasion to ask anyone's opinion, but you had no right! I like the kitchens, you know, not scrubbing floors and dusting bookshelves for presumptuous ponces."
Caspian's eyes widen with each sentence as she upbraids him. No one save his uncle has ever spoken to him thus. Snide comments from lords and generals loyal to his uncle, absolutely. But nothing like this. It sends his blood thrumming in a manner he can't quite identify.
"Presumptuous?" he splutters. And what in the Lion's Mane is a ponce? Some derogatory term for prince? "By my estimation, that soldier made your current situation untenable."
"Tenable or not," she says, "it wasn't your place to interfere."
"I am a prince, I thought -"
"And that gives you the right to meddle however you see fit?" Addie's eyes flash like none he's ever seen. "I never asked for your help, nor your protection! Forcing it on me isn't very noble of you."
Few servants would stand up to a noble like this, and those that did would land in a dungeon cell. Yet here she is, furious when he tried to help the best way he knew. Caspian realises he's rocked back on his heels and steadies himself.
Just then, he recognises the catch in her tone, that whisper underneath the indignation and anger.
"You're right," he concedes. "But what is this really about?"
Addie blinks, lifts her chin a fraction. She wets her lips before she speaks; this time the tremor is harder to miss. "You didn't ask me what I thought of the matter. I may be a servant, but I had the right to decide what should be done."
Caspian clasps his hands and presses her again. "And?"
Addie's jaw works side to side. After a long silence, she answers with more honesty than he expected. "They're the only family I have," she whispers. "You had no right."
The intoxicating rush of his blood cools as the understanding dawns. "I'm sorry," Caspian says at once. "I should have asked you."
Her eyes scan down his body only to flit back up; whatever she finds, it steadies her voice. "Yes," Addie says. "You should have."
"I tried to get him reassigned - the soldier," he explains. "I had no name to identify him. Tell me his name and I can move him where he cannot bother you again."
Addie uncrosses her arms and shifts her weight from foot to foot. Perhaps having such a conversation in his bedroom isn't the best of ideas. Caspian gestures to the open door of his study.
"Shall we sit? It would be more comfortable." For his sanity, he'd prefer to discuss this somewhere - anywhere - not in view of his bed. Already his neck is warming in a way it shouldn't.
Perhaps she hears the pleading underneath his manners; Addie agrees and enters ahead of him. She takes the cushioned window seat and leaves the chair at his desk for him. Caspian sits gingerly as he schools his expression into neutrality.
He clears his throat. "What is his name?"
Addie clasps her hands in her lap while Caspian grips the chair arms. "Even if you reassigned him, what'd stop him from coming back?" She shakes her head. "He'd just get angry again. Besides, I don't think he'll show up for a while."
If she's concerned about angering him further, that is proof enough to Caspian that something must be done. Whether his method was the right one remains to be seen; perhaps he did not go about it correctly if it was.
"I would like to help," Caspian confesses. "I will do whatever you ask."
Addie's demeanour softens, if only in the line of her shoulders. "If he doesn't know where I'm assigned, that might help." She sighs, and the fire eases out of her. "His name is Marcos. He patrols the courtyard in the daytime, and a night shift once a fortnight. Not that there's much to guard beyond servants with buckets."
Caspian's mouth twists into a wry smile. "My uncle is determined to know every happening in this castle. Even servants' gossip at the well."
Addie snorts. "As if we have time for gossiping."
She's not wrong. Caspian shrugs. "I assure you, once my uncle gets an idea in his head, none can shake it free."
Addie presses her lips together. "Yes, well. To the point, both could work. I might like a change of pace, but I won't leave my current post."
Do all the servants form such close bonds? He finds it odd to put much stock in working relationships, but Caspian is not unaware that the lords and generals he spends most of his time pandering to may kill him one day.
Though, he has Doctor Cornelius. The old scholar isn't a father, but he's more than a mere tutor. If Miraz sent the Doctor away, Caspian would be furious too. If Addie's kitchen friends mean so much to her, the least he can do is let her choose what she wants.
"I can see to it you return to the kitchen for tomorrow," Caspian offers. "Or you could split your duties. I didn't truly need another maid."
Addie chews her lip for a long moment as she looks away. She crosses her arms, only to drop them again and twine her fingers together over her knee. "I think I wouldn't mind working with Bruna more," she says. "So long as I can still see my… the others."
"If that's what you want," Caspian agrees. After all, he only meant to make her safer.
"Bruna's morning is busy," Addie continues. "I can help her until mid morning and go back to the kitchen after that."
Caspian nods. "I think that would be best. If that soldier gives you more trouble, please come to me."
Addie smooths her skirts and lifts an eyebrow. "As I said, Your Highness, I don't need your protection." She glances up with a smirk. "But if I fend him off with a fire poker, I'd appreciate if you kept me from the dungeons."
Caspian sinks into his chair and sighs, his pretence of perfect posture evaporating. "Consider it done."
Addie rises and walks to the bookshelf, her skirt catching for a moment on his desk corner. "Very well, Caspian."
She closes the hidden door behind her, but the echo of her presence keeps Caspian glued to his chair long after she's left.
Chapter 4 Preview:
Spare Oom. The name rolls through Addie's mind like oil skittering over a hot pan. Short for Spare Room, most likely, which doesn't sound like the name of another land. Probably just some tall tale warped over the centuries.