Riley woke to the clatter of pans and the warm, buttery smell of something that contrasted with the prison slop she always woke up to back in the Circle.
Riley had followed the smell down the stairs and through the east corridor, half-expecting to find a cook or a caterer or some other species of hired professional.
What she did not expect to find was Cassandra Anova, in a pristine white apron, standing at a marble island, rolling out pastry dough with the focused precision of someone defusing a bomb.
Riley stopped in the doorway and Cassandra glanced up. Her eyes swept over Riley once, before returning to her dough.
"You're up early," Cassandra said.
"You cook," Riley replied. It came out more like an accusation than an observation.
Cassandra glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched. "I enjoy it. Keeps the hands busy and the mind quiet."
