Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 74631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
In the castle, I have no fear of starving. My breakfast appears each morning in my room, and lunch appears wherever I happen to be in the castle, usually on a convenient table with a chair and a window to look out of. The same goes for dinner. Everything I am served is as fine as the food the beast fed me, but it does not have quite the same appeal as when I was able to suck it off his fingers.
On the third day I find the kitchen.
It is late afternoon, and the light is golden in the spacious kitchen equipped to feed ballrooms full of people. The light falls on sturdy countertops, gleaming copper pots, and rows of polished knives and ladles and serving forks.
It comes to life as I enter, the tea kettle jumping on the stove. As I wander nearer to a pair of wide sinks, they turn on, spilling clear water below. I rinse my hands in the water, finding it pleasantly cool. On the window ledge, a small, lush herb garden grows, the plants fragrant. When I reach to touch the carved wood of the box, a watering can floats from its hook, fills itself with water at the sink, and sprinkles water over the herbs.
It entertains me, the magic does. I’m entranced by it and all it does.
On one shelf, I find a row of cookbooks. Some are heavy and ornate, while others are smaller and worn. I choose one of the ones that looks loved and open the leather cover. The pages have illustrations here and there and finally the cookbook falls open to a recipe for a fruit tart.
I place my finger on the page, thinking to read through the list of ingredients, but at my touch cabinets open with a bang, startling me. I drop the cookbook to the countertop and whirl to discover what’s happening.
Various cabinets open and items fly out. A bowl spins to a stop on the huge island at the center of the kitchen. An icebox opens and fruits soar out, arranging themselves next to the bowl. Sugar and butter float from somewhere nearby. My heart races as I realize what’s happening. I turn back to the cookbook and stare at the list of ingredients.
Before long the kitchen has gathered everything necessary to make the fruit tart. I watch in astonishment as dough is prepared and rolled out and settled into a circular tin. The filling mixes itself together with plenty of sugar, the white grains coating the fruit. I think of Ara at the bakery, her hands red and sore from the work she begins before sunrise and of how much time this would save her.
Would this magic work outside of the castle? How far can the magic go? I do not know, and I watch, entranced, as the oven glows brighter and the prepared tart floats inside.
I’ve heard of witches…perhaps an essence remains. I do not know, but my mind wanders as the kitchen utensils move around me.
The light begins to fade as the sun sets, glowing orange through the window. It finishes sinking into the horizon as the tart pops from the oven and floats to a rack to cool. Candles burn to life in sconces on the walls, illuminating the kitchen with comforting light.
That is when I hear footsteps in the hall.
They pause outside the door, then enter, but I keep my eyes on the window as they move across the room. I think the beast is moving behind a wall that leads to a large pantry.
My breath quickens and I stay perfectly still. I haven’t got my blindfold with me. I wait for a command, finding myself hoping that it is him. Realizing just how lonely I’ve been without him.
It is darker on that end of the kitchen, and my heart races. I want to turn and search for his eyes in the shadows, but I do not. The last rays of the sun fade, and nervousness sets in. I have come to the kitchen without permission. The beast did not forbid me from coming here, but he did not permit it, either. There have been no notes on the bedroom floor telling me where to go or what to wear, but that does not mean he has no thoughts about it. And now I have had the house prepare a tart from his stores.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice soft but seeming loud in the kitchen after days of quiet. “I didn’t know—”
“Do not be,” the beast answers before I can finish my apology. “It pleases me that you make yourself comfortable.”
Releasing a breath I didn’t know I was holding, I move to the counter, and the tart slides off the rack and settles itself in the space next to it. It’s a perfect fruit tart. When I hover my hand above it, I find it has cooled enough to cut. A knife presents itself as soon as I have the thought and cuts the tart into even pieces. Two small plates float from the cupboard and arrange themselves on the counter as well, and dessert forks follow them, along with a small serving fork, which plates a slice of tart on each of the plates.