Page 47 of Spar of Hearts

The blissful dream gave her an emotional hangover. She tried to shake it off as she slunk to the small closet and selected a silver dress with comfortable, flowing sleeves, but her heart lingered in the memory. Roderick’s baritone voice still echoed in her mind.

I know you don’t want to miss a minute of the stars.

“Are you all right, My Lady?”

Anya blinked at her friend, hurled into the present. “Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You were talking in your sleep.” Blackbird leaned in. “You were saying Lord Bryson’s name. Did you have a nightmare?”

Worse.

“Something like that,” Anya answered, shoving her arms through the sleeves of the dress. She could hardly keep up with Blackbird’s bubbly energy.

“Some food will do you good. There is nothing breakfast can’t solve.” Blackbird swung the door open, holding it for her. “Hurry! I can smell the honey toast already!”

Her stomach roiled at the thought of eating anything. Meanwhile, Blackbird could be on death’s door and ask the reaper for a biscuit. She watched her lady-in-waiting skip ahead, then halt a step and turn around. The discomfort must have been plain on her face.

“At least try to eat something, My Lady. Toast and tea? Some porridge?”

“Tea for sure,” Anya muttered. Some strong black tea might ease her throbbing head. As they padded down the hall, every baked good and steaming pot melded together to form one overwhelming scent. Her throat threatened to exact revenge for her reckless night, but she forced it down.

Annette pushed the kitchen door open, one hand held to the squirming bundle wrapped to her chest. She flitted from table to table, asking everyone how their food was. Sailors doted on her daughter, smiling and laughing as the little Lycanian baby cooed.

The remainder of her drunken stupor came back in that moment.

Ale on the floor.

Shattered dishes.

Blueberry jam!

Oh stars! Her pupils constricted into fearful slits. How could she leave such a disaster for poor Annette to wake up to? Annette had enough on her plate as it stood. A spouse, a baby, cooking for the entire crew—this was worse than any other besotted regret she’d had in the past. Had Roderick ratted her out?

“Good morning, Your Highness!” Annette beamed at her.

“I’m sorry!” Anya blurted.

“Sorry for what?” Annette cocked her head, shifting her silver braids to the side.

“The kitchen—I—” She stumbled over her words, trying to peer over the open counter dividing the kitchen and galley.

Annette placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right, Your Highness? What about the kitchen?”

“Nothing.” Anya shook her head. “I had a dream someone made a mess in there.”

“Oh!” Annette chuckled. “That would be a nightmare. I assure you; it was just that. The kitchen was as spotless as I left it after dinner. But never mind that. Did I hear you say you wanted tea?”

Spotless.

“Yes, thank you,” she answered, her gaze drifting to where Roderick sat at the table closest to the one she and Blackbird usually sat at. He had dark circles under his eyes and kept his head down as he slowly ate a bowl of porridge piled with dried fruit and nuts. He seemed to be focusing every fiber of his being on the simple act of eating.

He was tired.

“What kind?”

“Black with lemon would be lovely,” Anya answered. It wasn’t her usual rose hip, but she needed the help waking up. Annette nodded and swept back to the kitchen.

The spotless kitchen.