Britta knelt over the pot, the steam bathing her face and calming her troubled breathing. She groped to the side, not daring to take her face away from it. Her fingers fell upon the thin ribbons of herbs her sister, with the help of Mistress Layla, had prepared. She gripped them tightly, crushing them together and adding them in, relishing the fresh wave of sweet scent, and the relief it brought her. Her breathing smoothed out and her grip on the edges of the range loosened, blood rushing back to her fingertips. Then, the flames in the old metal range began to stutter, and she knew that her twelve minutes were up.

Leaning back, she breathed in deep gulps of cool air. Feeling Slightly dizzy, she rose to her feet and brushed off her skirt. A door slammed open, and some of the lingering smoke and heat was pulled outside. A girl with auburn hair pulled tightly into a braid had already crossed the room, and was dusting Britta off herself.

"Are you okay?" She asked, her brown eyes glimmering with compassion.

Britta just nodded, glad of the girl – her sisters – comfort, but knowing she was neglecting her job. "I'm fine, Diana." She said, quietly. "It's just all the dust and pollen around here."

"Mistress Core shouldn't have set you in the garden this time of year." Said Diana, her eyes flashing as she gestured to the spring sky outside.

Britta shrugged. "She has to get jobs done somehow." She pointed out, straightening her old, patched skirt. She spoke in a confident tone now her breathing had returned to normal, but her sister always knew how she really felt. Maybe it was because they were twins.

Sending her a sad smile, Diana dampened down the fire and Britta cleared away the herbs, chopping new ones as she had seen the woman in charge of their kitchen do many times before. She didn't practise patience as Mistress Layla did, and her herbs were uneven by the time she had finished. Stowing them away in one of the rough, wooden cupboards, she turned and followed her sister back outside.

The grounds of their home, Weatherston Abbey, were teeming with life. Plants poked out of the melting snow and the sun shone longer, brighter and hotter as each day passed. With its sprawling grounds and roughly cobbled paths, it was easy to get lost in the abbey, but Britta, having lived there her whole life, knew it well. At this time of year, when the trees in the expansive orchard were just beginning to throw out leaves or blossoms, there was much to do. The gardens had to be weeded, the sheep had to be herded from their winter pen and the left-over preserves from the winter had to be brought out from the cold, stone storerooms and counted so that the Dedicates of the Abbey knew they were earning their keep.

Britta returned to her task of weeding the garden, smiling at some of the other orphans which were working there also. In spring, everyone turned out to the gardens to help, but usually, Britta was one of those who worked inside the kitchen, finding and preparing food for the guests and travelers which stopped by to take advantage of the Abbey's famed hospitality. On quiet days, she helped in the stables, although Diana insisted the dust would just make her breathing worse.

The murmur of the orphan's conversation engulfed her. She listened carefully but said nothing. Many of the girls working in the garden were usually in charge of the laundry or looking after guests. She wasn't used to talking with them, and she had long since learned that it was best not to want to. They would pick her up with compliments and smiles but cut her down with sharp words just as quickly. Bitterness could do that to a person, and for those who wished themselves a better life, the orphan's working quarters were a breeding ground for bitterness.

Picking up a handful of weeds which she had coaxed from the ground, she picked out the inedible ones and kept the rest. If she cooked them well enough, then they would be the first taste of spring greens. She knew that nothing should be wasted. Diana had come outside to work next to her. She was kneeling on the ground, the damp earth not showing against her brown skirts, although strangely, dirt and grime never seemed to soil their clothing as much as it did for the others.

They went inside once the sun had begun to sink beneath the mountains which made a border between their kingdom and beyond. Weatherston Abbey was the closest to them for miles around. Surrounded by stone walls, it was guarded against any of the Mountain Men by burly guards wearing dark dyed leather. They didn't speak much, but Britta liked to climb up the side of the wall and watch them train in the early mornings.

Mistress Layla was waiting, a carving knife in her hand, when Britta and her sister entered the kitchen. "We're cooking for the Dedicates today." She said, her voice rough like the scantly ground flour she worked with so much.

Britta nodded, sharing a glance with Diana. They rarely cooked for Dedicates with so little warning and preparing the delicacies they indulged in would make things many times more difficult. Their Mistress had already begun to cook. First, preparing the ingredients – cutting out the eyes of the potatoes, which had begun to sprout by this time of the year, and scrubbing the few fresh greens, which had been planted in the glasshouse through winter. The ones Britta had found would be added to the meals for the guards and the orphans themselves.

They helped her quietly, knowing her moods by heart. When she cooked, she had little thought for anything else. Her small, pale eyes, would squint to avoid flour flying into them, while the same substance dusted her narrow face white, like the face paint the noble women used. Her bony hands seemed to know where everything was; her attention seemed to be solely on the bread dough she was kneading, while the fingers of her other hand would grasp the tool's she needed off their hooks nailed into the whitewashed walls.

Britta helped as best she could while staying away from the flour that flew everywhere. The wide windows which let in light were impossible to open, although large, rusted, hinges adorned each side. With no air able to escape, except around the oak wood door, the room was cloudy with the flour and smoke from the fire. Apart from the smell of burning wood and bread dough, Britta could almost see herself in a misty forest, early in the morning. She loved the forest at dawn. Its silence gave her time to think and no one forced her to do work which she would only ever protest against silently.

"When will you be back in the kitchen full-time?" Asked Mistress Layla, ever-disapproving of early spring, when her helpers would be taken to work elsewhere,

Diana answered first before Britta could get a word in. "Soon." She said. "The first gardens are almost finished."

"We have peas planted." Put in Britta, knowing how she loved to cook with those.

Mistress Layla smiled at her, a warm look which Britta only saw when it was just the three of them. The bread dough was well and truly mixed and Mistress Layla put the rolling pin aside after expertly rolling out the dough. It would be flatbread because dinner was served when the Abbey bells chimed six times. There would not be enough time for it to rise before then, which told Britta that Mistress Layla hadn't known who she would be cooking for until recently.

This surprised her because whenever something took her Mistress unawares, she would make it known. Mistress Layla had a voice which could cut like a knife, and wit which she was not afraid to use, unlike Britta, who had developed her own quick mind, but not her confidence.

The dough was flattened onto large, metal platters. Unlike in other kitchens, they were smooth and strong, made by Dedicates and not their apprentices. Mistress Layla still had little faith in them and was gentle as she slid them onto the wire mesh above the hot fire. Neither the metal trays nor the mesh broke, although the fire was beginning to get so hot that even Britta's face became red underneath her light bronze skin.

They prepared potatoes, and whilst Mistress Layla undertook the desert, Britta seasoned meat with different herbs. The meat was thick with fat – an animal which had been caught in autumn before everything was winter-thin. Once the smell of thyme and sage seasoned the wood smoke as well as the food, she had delicately removed the taste of the preserving salts which had let it keep through the cold season. She swept the leaves back into the basket she had woven for them, careful not to crush them. She was envious of the dedicates who ate the expensive meats they spent so long cooking. The orphans often went without anything.

We're like a bunch of cows for more reasons than that, Britta thought, but stopped herself, remembering the fish they sometimes ate a little of and Diana's disapproval of the rebellious thoughts she was so good at sensing.

Mistress Layla had peppered their bread with different herbs too, using a small amount of salt to bring out the flavour. The white substance was brought from the east coast, from the sea, and was so expensive that only the Dedicates and some important guests had the liberty of tasting it in their food. When the merchants came in the summer they would bring more of it, as well as dyed fabric and bars of perfumed soap.

The platters on which the food was served were very different to the ones on which they were cooked. They were a silver metal, embellished with the crest of the Empire Dereges; a moon surrounded by thistles.

Britta helped carry one out, laden with food. More would join it from the other kitchens. She put it on one of the long wooden benches which lined the food hall, ready for the serving girls to collect. Making sure it was well covered, away from flies and the fingers of hungry children, she left to clean the kitchen.

Mistress Layla only let them go once the kitchen was spotlessly clean. Britta's fingers ached from the harsh scrubbing she had subjected their dishes to, and her skirt was pockmarked with the warm water and gritty soap she had cleaned them in. She smelled strongly of lemongrass because of it. The smoke had risen to the ceiling, finding its way out through the small cracks and crevices which opened where the walls met the roof.

By the time the cooking surface was perfectly clean, the strands of Britta's hair which had escaped from their braid stuck to her face with the moisture from the steam. She was pleased to grab a breath of air from the food-hall outside. The serving girls had already gathered up the platters of food, but the smell lingered in the air. It was a sharp contrast to the scent of the cleansing oil which Diana had helped rub into the walls.

The food in the court where the orphans ate was of a lower quality. Even someone like Mistress Layla or Master Crane had a hard time making the ingredients they were given taste good, although even in spring when their stores of preserved food had almost gone, nobody went hungry for more than a day. Britta sat beside Diana and their friends, Fee, and Bella, near the end of one of the long tables.

They left once every dish was empty to clean-up. Bella had to don her crisp, white apron so she looked presentable enough to go and set warming pans in the guest bedrooms.

Before bed, everyone lined up in the long hallway. Mistress Core entered through the door which led to her richly decorated quarters. She was the overseer of the orphans. Corpulent, with her long skirts bulked out with layers upon layers of petticoats, she made an impressive sight as she looked at them imperiously, down her long, fleshy nose. Nobody said a word as she made sure every one of them was where they should be. The boys were lined up opposite them, just as silent and still. Mistress Core seemed to take in every speck of dirt on their clothing, the button at the top of Britta's shirt, which she had undone due to the hot kitchen, the bitten nails of Fees hands. Finally, she nodded, her dark hair hardly moving in its tightly pinned up style.

She left, rustling importantly, her shoes clicking on the bare, stone floor. The other Mistresses and Masters followed, moving to their separate sleeping quarters. The children were silent until they had left, then chatter broke out amongst them. The boys and girls, usually strictly separated, had a few minutes to mingle. It was the time of night when all the jobs were done, and everyone could relax a little more. Fee was talking animatedly, saying how one of the guests refused to have their food served by an orphan. Bella was shaking her head, her blue eyes glinting angrily.

Britta just shrugged, she had long since learned that there was always someone who hated the idea of an orphan.

***

Welp, first chapter done. Two things - I'm not sure if this level of description is good or bad but it won't last aaand neither will the relitive lack of spelling/grammar mistakes. So eh, thanks for reading *hugs*