Alice had never been more grateful for the noise of a busy kitchen.
The clatter of utensils, the hiss of boiling stock, the low murmur of cooks speaking among themselves—normally the sounds blurred into ordinary background noise. Tonight, however, they wrapped around her like protection, shielding her from the anxiety that had been gnawing at her stomach ever since Gustav's men escorted Ms. Sepala back upstairs hours earlier.
She stood beside the preparation counter arranging dishes onto a silver meal cart with trembling hands.
Salmon rice.
Miso soup.
Mashed potatoes.
And, of course, the full-topping boba tea that had somehow become the imprisoned girl's greatest emotional dependency.
Alice had just adjusted the straw when a finger tapped lightly against her shoulder.
Her entire body jolted.
She spun around so quickly she nearly dropped the tray in her hands.
"Young Master!"
