The morning after the grand feast, the kitchen of the Adam estate was quiet—not with peace, but with tension.
The clatter of knives and chatter of servants was replaced with hushed whispers and worried glances.
The larders were bare compared to yesterday, and even the advanced emergency reserves—carefully stored for the worst of winters—had been cracked into.
The head chef, a stout man with more years in the Adam kitchen than Lady Rose had in her life, stood at the center of the room with his arms crossed.
"If we cook like we did yesterday, we'll be out of flour and oil before week's end. And meat… don't even speak of it."
He muttered to his assistants.
A junior cook nervously bit her lip.
"Do we… tell her?"
The room went still. No one wanted to be the one to suggest it. Lady Rose's temper was infamous in the servants' hall, and pride—sharp and unyielding—ran in her blood.
Just as they were weighing their options, the kitchen door swung open.
