Chapter 20: The Baker’s Feast
The castle at night was a different beast. The corridors Kerr moved through were silent except for the distant, rhythmic tread of a guard three levels up. Shadows pooled in the arched doorways, and the familiar portraits of grim ancestors seemed to watch him pass with judging eyes. He could still smell Lady Landra’s perfume on his skin, a floral ghost beneath the scent of sweat and sex. His body hummed with a spent, pleasant fatigue, but his mind wouldn’t quiet.
The memory of her—first terrified, then shattered, then grinning like a fool—clashed with the polished stone reality of Highever around him. It was a secret that would curdle if it saw the light. He needed something real. Something uncomplicated.
The kitchen was his compass.
A soft, orange glow spilled from the archway ahead, a promise of warmth and life in the sleeping stone. The smell of banked fires, dried herbs, and old wood smoke grew stronger as he approached. He paused at the threshold.
Elspeth was alone, her back to him. She stood at the long, scarred central table, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, forearms dusted with flour. She was wiping down the oak surface with a wet cloth, her movements slow and methodical. A single lantern hung from a hook above her, painting her grey hair in tones of honey and copper. The great hearth held only embers, their pulsing light dancing over the copper pots hanging from their hooks. It was peaceful. It was real.
He leaned against the doorframe, watching her work. This was his true history. Not the grand hall or the tourney fields, but this worn table, this woman, the smell of bread baked this morning.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he said, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet.
She didn’t jump. Her hands didn’t even pause their circular motion on the wood. She just let out a short, knowing breath through her nose. “Hmph. Someone’s prowling. Knew it.”
“How?”
“Floorboards. You’re a draft horse trying to be a cat, my lad. Always were.” She rinsed the cloth in a bucket, wringing it out with a twist of her strong wrists. “Mind’s racing, I expect.”
He pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room. The flagstones were still warm from the day’s cooking. “Something like that. Can’t help but… look at things. Knowing I’ll have to leave it soon.”
“Off to be a great hero for the Grey Wardens, are you?” she said, not unkindly. She finally turned, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face, lined and sharp-eyed, held a familiar, no-nonsense affection. She looked him up and down. “You look wound tight. Even for you.”
He came to stand behind her, close enough that the heat from his body reached her back. He rested his hands on her shoulders, feeling the familiar, sturdy muscle beneath her rough-spun dress. She leaned back into the touch just slightly, a small concession.
“Just thinking,” he murmured, his thumbs working at the tension in her neck.
“Dangerous pastime.” She tipped her head forward, giving him better access. “That noblewoman from the south left today, you know. Packed up her silks and her sour-faced son at first light. Husband looked confused as ever.” Her tone was casual, but the implication hung in the air, clear as the copper pots.
Kerr’s hands stilled for a second. “Elspeth…”
“I’m the help, Kerr. I see everything. And I don’t care.” She straightened up and turned around within the circle of his arms, her shrewd eyes searching his face. “But you should. That’s trouble with a capital T. The kind that gets young fools killed in duels.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” She poked a finger into his chest. “Or does that bit between your legs do all your thinking?”
He caught her hand, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Sometimes.”
She snorted, but didn’t pull away. Her gaze softened. “You’re a good lad. Mostly. Just have too much heart and not enough fear. It’s a balance.”
He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. It was a gesture of pure familiarity, comfort. “I missed this.”
“This?” she chuckled. “A scolding from an old woman?”
“The truth,” he said quietly.
They stayed like that for a moment, the world reduced to the warm kitchen and the sound of their breathing. Then he shifted his hips forward, pressing against her. The hard line of his arousal, already stirring again despite the night’s earlier activities, was unmistakable through his breeches.
Elspeth’s eyes closed. A low, resigned chuckle escaped her. “Ah. So that’s what this is about.”
“Partly,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper near her ear.
“Partly,” she repeated, sarcasm dripping from the word. But her hands came up to rest on his hips. “Maker’s breath, boy. You’re insatiable. Like a stallion in spring.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s a exhausting thing.” She gave a small, deliberate roll of her hips back against him, feeling his length thicken further. A familiar, practical look settled on her face. “Well. If you’re here to reminisce before you go off to die gloriously, we might as well.”
He kissed her then. It wasn’t like the hungry, desperate kiss with Landra. This was slower, deeper, a conversation without words. Her lips were thin and soft, and she tasted of mint and plain tea. Her hands came up to cradle his jaw, her thumbs stroking his cheeks.
When she broke the kiss, she was breathing a little heavier. She turned around, bracing her hands on the edge of the table she’d just cleaned. She looked over her shoulder, her expression a mix of fondness and exasperation. “Go on then. Be quick about it. My back’s not what it was.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He unlaced his breeches, freeing himself. The cool air of the kitchen was a shock, followed by the warmer shock of pressing against the rough wool of her skirts. He pushed the fabric up, finding the familiar, warm flesh beneath. She was already damp for him, a readiness born of years of this easy, understanding.
He entered her in one smooth, slow push. She was tight, welcoming, a known harbor. She let out a long, shaky sigh as he filled her, her head dropping forward.
“Always forget,” she grunted, bracing herself. “Maker, you’re a handful.”
He set a rhythm that was nothing like the punishing, soul-scouring pace he’d used with Landra. This was measured. Familiar. The deep, rocking strokes of two people who knew each other’s bodies like their own. The only sounds were their mingled breathing, the soft, wet slide of their union, and the occasional creak of the table against his thrusts.
Her hand reached back, gripping his thigh, her fingers digging in to match his rhythm. “That’s it,” she murmured, her voice strained. “Right there. Don’t you dare slow down.”
He obeyed, his hands firm on her hips, holding her steady. This wasn’t about conquest or oblivion. It was connection. It was the opposite of the terrifying, brilliant secret in the guest wing. This was his. Simple, warm, and real.
Her climax built quietly, a rising tension in her body that suddenly snapped. She clenched around him with a low, guttural cry, her body shuddering against the table. He followed soon after, his own release a warm, spreading comfort that left him leaning over her, spent, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades.
They stayed locked together for a long minute, recovering. Finally, she patted his hand on her hip. “Alright. Up you get. You’re crushing me.”
He withdrew, quickly tidying himself. She straightened her skirts with a few efficient tugs, then turned around. Her face was flushed, her hair a little messier. She reached up and cupped his cheek, her hand rough and warm.
“You’ll be fine, Kerr Cousland,” she said, her voice firm. “Wherever you’re going. You’ve got more sense in you than you think. You just let other parts lead the way too often.”
He caught her hand, kissing the palm. “What would I do without you?”
“Find some other poor soul to nag you and fuck you senseless, I expect,” she said, turning back to her bucket. But she smiled. “Now get. Dawn’s not far off, and I’ve got bread to start. Can’t be lounging about like a lord.”
He lingered for one more second, watching her reclaim her domain—the flour, the bucket, the worn table. This was a part of his home he would truly miss. A part no one else would ever see or understand.
As he slipped out into the dark corridor, the smell of yeast and fire clinging to him, the thought of leaving it all behind felt, for the first time, like a real and coming loss.
Sleep was a thin, fitful blanket. Kerr woke to the grey light of pre-dawn seeping through his narrow window. The stone of his chamber held the night’s chill, a stark contrast to the remembered warmth of skin and kitchen embers. He dressed slowly, the motions feeling heavier than usual.
The loss wasn’t an abstract concept anymore. It was the absence of Elspeth’s frank scolding, the silence of the kitchen at night, the end of something unspoken but deeply known. He pulled on his boots, the leather stiff and cold. Duty was a suit of armor he had to strap on alone today.
The castle was stirring. Muffled voices echoed from the lower floors, and the scent of baking bread began to weave through the hallways. He followed it, his stomach tight with more than hunger. The main kitchen was a whirl of activity, girls kneading dough and stoking fires, but Elspeth wasn’t at her usual station.
He scanned the room, catching the eye of a young scullery maid. She blushed and pointed a flour-dusted thumb towards the pantry door. He nodded thanks, the gesture feeling oddly formal.
The pantry was a narrow, cool space lined with shelves of preserves, sacks of grain, and hanging bunches of dried herbs. The air smelled of dust, earth, and thyme. Elspeth was there, her back to him, reaching for a clay jar of honey on a high shelf. She stood on her toes, her fingertips just brushing the rim.
“Let me,” he said, stepping into the confined space.
She started, nearly dropping the jar she was holding. “Maker’s breath, Kerr! Give a body warning.” She turned, but the pantry was small. He was already there, his large frame filling the doorway, blocking the light from the kitchen.
Their closeness was immediate and absolute. He could see the fine powder of flour caught in the wrinkles of her neck. The memory of last night hung between them, a live wire.
“I was just—” she began.
“I know.” He reached past her, his chest brushing against her shoulder, and easily plucked the honey jar from the shelf. He didn’t hand it to her. He set it on a lower shelf beside them. The act left him leaning over her, caging her gently against the shelves.
She looked up at him, her sharp eyes reading his face. The noise from the main kitchen was a distant murmur. Here, it was just their breathing. “You’re leaving soon.”
“Tomorrow.”
The word fell into the quiet like a stone. Her face didn’t change, but something in her gaze shifted, a softening at the edges. She understood. This wasn’t just another morning after. It was a last.
She opened her mouth, likely to say something practical, something to deflect the weight of it. He didn’t let her. He kissed her, a deep, claiming press of lips that held all the words he couldn’t say. She kissed him back, a surge of old passion and present sadness, her hands coming up to clutch the front of his tunic.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. “Elspeth.”
“Oh, don’t.” Her voice was rough. “Don’t say anything sappy.”
He didn’t. Instead, he hooked his hands under her thighs and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. She gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her skirts bunching up. He turned and pinned her against the rough stone wall of the pantry, the cold penetrating through the wool of her dress. There was no finesse, no slow burn. The urgency was a tidal pull.
He fumbled with the front of his breeches, freeing himself. She helped, her fingers clumsy and urgent. He needed this, needed the simplicity of friction and feeling to drown out the complicated dread. He positioned himself and pushed into her in one solid, deep stroke.
She cried out, a sharp, stifled sound swallowed by his shoulder. She was tight, wet, real. He set a brutal, driving pace immediately, the shelves rattling gently with each thrust. There was no time for gentle, no space for anything but this frantic, physical truth.
Her nails dug into the back of his neck. Her breath came in hot, ragged bursts against his ear. “Yes,” she hissed, over and over, a mantra. “Yes, like that. Don’t stop.”
He wouldn’t, couldn’t. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the creak of the wall against his weight, her harsh pants in the dark, herb-scented air. Her body tightened around him, a rapid, spiraling coil. She came with a choked, guttural moan, her entire body shuddering, clenching around him like a vise.
The intensity of her orgasm, the raw sound of it, the finality of it all, undid him. His own release ripped through him, a flooding wave of heat and sensation that emptied his mind of every thought except now, here, her. He stayed buried in her, pinned against the wall, both of them panting, suspended.
Slowly, the sounds of the kitchen filtered back in. The thump of dough, a shouted order, the clang of a pot. Reality, cold and insistent, seeped back into the pantry.
He gently lowered her until her feet found the floor. Her legs were unsteady, and she leaned against the shelves for a moment, adjusting her dress with trembling hands. They didn’t speak. The air between them was thick with spent passion and unspoken goodbye.
She reached up, her hand rough and warm, and cupped his cheek. Her thumb stroked once over his cheekbone. Then she picked up the jar of honey, her business-like mask slipping back into place.