Queen of Tomorrow by Ficklin Sherry D

Author:Ficklin, Sherry D. [Ficklin, Sherry D.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: 18th Century, Russia & the Former Soviet Union, Royalty, Romance & Love Stories, Fiction - Historical
ISBN: 9781634220705
Publisher: Clean Teen Publishing
Published: 2015-06-05T07:00:00+00:00

The kitchens are abnormally quiet. Sergei has gone off to speak with the physician leaving me in the ever watchful company of my guard. Not wanting word of Peter’s condition to get out, the Empress has cancelled the evening’s events and sent many of the palace staff home for the day. Besides myself and Grigory, only the head cook, Beatrice, remains in the always hot bake room. Over the fire a venison roast rotates on the spit as she slowly cranks the handle. Her long sky blue gown is dirty, stained with soot, flour, and blood. Her apron has caught the brunt of it, but there are two tell tale stains where she has wiped her hands on the skirts themselves. Her hair is dull yellow with streaks of silver poking out from her covered bun. Her thin face is flushed, her lips cracked and dry. She eyes me warily as I putter around the kitchen grabbing bits of dried spices to add to my boiling pot.

When I’d come down to make Peter some soup, she had tried to do it for me, despite being short handed, but I waved her off, wanting to do at least one kind, wifely thing for Peter before he met his end.

The bits of rabbit are heavily salted, making the soup too bitter. I gently crush a handful of herbs and release them into the boiling juices, stirring it slowly. Behind me Beatrice moves swiftly, retrieving a glass bottle from the back of the cupboard and handing it to me.

“Best add a bit of this, Your Grace.”

I hold up the jar, trying to determine its contents. Peppercorns, perhaps?

“It’s crab eyes. Said to be the best thing for the pox,” she adds quietly.

I nod gratefully, not wanting to ask how she knew about Peter’s ailment. More likely than not the servants are already buzzing with news, heavens knows they can’t keep anything a secret for long. I pull the cork and the smell, while not overpowering, is a bit rancid. I shake about half the bottle into the soup, then add some more spices, carrots, and potato chunks for good measure. Replacing the cork I hand it back to her.

“Best keep some aside, in case anyone else falls ill,” I offer.

She nods and returns to her spit churning. Once the potatoes are tender enough to be crushed with the back of the spoon, I ladle some into a bowl and put it on a tray. Turning to take it up the stairs I’m intercepted by Grigory, spotless as always in his dark green uniform that matches almost perfectly the shade of his eyes, his dark, wavy hair restrained with a ribbon at the back of his neck. He takes the tray briskly.

“Allow me to carry that, Your Grace.”

I nod and lead him toward Peter’s room. Along the way I am stared at by everyone from servants to grooms to visiting nobles. I feel their eyes on me as if I were naked, heavy with pity and shock.

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