Stormfire by Christine Monson

drifted toward her. Straightening her aching back, she eyed them as coolly as if Peg were escorting her on tour.
    "Know anythin' about cookin'?" Peg asked.
    "Not a thing," was the crisp reply. "And I've no intention of learning."
    Peg gave her a look. "Ye'd be wise, girl, not to quibble over trifles."
    Catherine started to retort, then realized the woman was right. She had best tread lightly until she explored her situation. She shrugged. "Very well, but don't blame me if I burn down the place."
    Peg led her to a table where a young blonde with rosy cheeks and Peg's blue eyes kneaded dough. With a sidelong look at Catherine, the blonde kept kneading. "Now," Peg said, "watch Moora here and do as she does."
    Catherine wondered if rpw dough was edible. It looked edible. She watched Moora's hands work and wind. Catherine filled her hands with flour. Nobody had asked her if they were clean. They were not. Moora plopped a wad of the creamy stuff on a board in front of her. Catherine dug her fingers into it, then tried a few experimental pulls. It was sticky and rubbery, but amusing to manipulate. Better still, it was turning a light gray. She adored the idea of feeding dirty bread to the enemy, but she was famished and the mound of dough was the only food in reach. Casually, she reached into the flattish wooden bowl that held fresh dough. Moora said without looking up, "Don't eat that."
    "I've only had a few mouthfuls of food in the last few days," Catherine argued. "I won't be much use if I faint."
    Moora's jaw set. "It's a rule. If you eat anythin' besides the regular meals, it's stealin'. Maude, there, handles thievin'."
    Catherine looked at Maude's burly physique and man- sized hands that wielded a side of bacon like a demitasse spoon. She kept on kneading.
    After a bit, Moora rolled her own portion into a fat sausage shape, then coiled it into a long knot. Catherine started to duplicate the pattern. "No. Another handful of flour or so for yer dough, then flour yer hands again before ye roll it."        
    For the next few hours Catherine folded dough, longing to pillow her head in the soft mass to sleep forever. At last, a bell sounded by the hearth nearest the door and her stomach gave a gurgle of joy. Breakfast! Everyone began to scurry about, clear tables, and set them with porringers, mugs, and spoons. Moora, without a word to her unwanted apprentice, joined the others.- Catherine watched for a moment, wondering if she was expected to assist, until Peg waggled an imperative finger and pointed to one of several silver trays loaded with covered dishes monogrammed with the initial C. The beast's own breakfast, no doubt.
    "Take that and follow me," Peg said. Moora and four girls picked up the other trays.
    "But, what about. . . ?"
    "Your breakfast?" Moora ironically supplied for her.
    "Later," Peg intoned. With a sigh, Catherine picked up the heavy tray. By the time they reached the end of the long corridor to the dining room, she thought her wrists would break.
    The first face she recognized was Liam's at the table's far end. Toying abstractedly with a water glass, he glanced up as Peg led the servants into the room. His startled look told Catherine the bruises on her face must have ripened. With a flush, he focused on his empty plate. She hoped his conscience roasted him!
    As she trailed Peg and Moora past the chairs toward him, she saw only strange men until Flannery's flaming beard came into view. Possibly accustomed to his master's brutality, he apeared less surprised than Liam. The trays went down on a massive mahogany sideboard. The room was Georgian with dark green walls, handsome white wainscoting, and a carpet with a scarlet field bordered in green and gold. A George Stubbs painting of riders and dappled white hounds hung in a gilt frame over the sideboard. Across the room, long windows admitted the hazy glow of early morning and framed a landscape bleak as a drained sea adrift with clinging scraps of mist. A