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       The palace kitchen was already alive with the rhythmic clatter of pots, the crackling of firewood beneath iron stoves, and the rich aroma of roasting meats and simmering broths. The scent of honey and spices wove through the air, mingling with the warmth of freshly baked bread. It was a world of its own, a kingdom of flour-dusted hands and hurried footsteps, ruled by the ever-watchful eyes of the head kitchener. 

       And in the midst of it all—trailing persistently after the head kitchener like a kitten chasing a rolling yarn—was Hyacintha. 

       “Please,” she pleaded, her hands clasped together as she followed the older woman through the kitchen. “Just once—just this once! I promise, I’ll be good!” 

       The head kitchener, a stout woman with arms as strong as a blacksmith’s and the patience of a saint, exhaled sharply. “You? Good?” she arched a skeptical brow as she reached for a basket of herbs. “The same girl who steals from my trays the moment I turn my back?” 

       Hyacintha huffed, puffing out her cheeks. “I do not steal! I simply … I simply test the quality of your work. With great admiration, I might add.” 

       The woman snorted. “Admiration, is it? And what makes you think I have the time to teach you, hm? Do you not have lessons to attend?” 

       Hyacintha dodged a passing cook carrying a heavy tray of steaming bread, then quickly stepped back to the head kitchener’s side. “I do, but this is more important.” she clasped her hands dramatically over her chest. “This is for His Grace.” 

       The older woman hesitated. “The king?” 

       “Yes.” Hyacintha nodded earnestly. “And you wouldn’t want me to make a mess of things, would you? If you refuse to help me, I’ll have no choice but to figure it out myself.” 

       The head kitchener paused, looking Hyacintha up and down, clearly picturing the inevitable disaster that would unfold if she left the girl unsupervised in her kitchen. 

       She sighed heavily. 

       “Fine.” 

       Hyacintha’s eyes lit up. “Really?” 

       “But,” the woman added sharply, holding up a flour-dusted finger, “on one condition.” 

       Hyacintha straightened. “Anything!” 

       The head kitchener smirked. “No more stealing cookies from my trays—for three months.” 

       Hyacintha’s jaw dropped. “Three months?! That is cruel!” 

       The woman crossed her arms. “Take it or leave it.” 

       Hyacintha quickly calculated her odds. Three months was unbearable. “How about … three weeks?” 

       “Six months.” 

       Hyacintha gasped. “You drive a hard bargain!” she held a hand to her forehead as if she might faint. “One month. That is my final offer.” 

       Miriam chuckled, shaking her head. “One month, then.” 

       Hyacintha grinned, clapping her hands together. “Excellent! Now—where do we start?” 

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

       Flour dusted her sleeves. Sticky almond paste clung stubbornly to her fingers. The scent of rosewater and sugar lingered in the air, sweet and delicate.