The transition from the echoing formality of the estate's upper levels to the controlled pandemonium of the main kitchens was like stepping through a portal into another world. The air, thick with the competing aromas of roasting boar, simmering root vegetables, sharp onions, sweet baking spices, and the underlying metallic tang of blood from the butchery section, hit Lloyd with almost physical force. It wasn't unpleasant, exactly, just… overwhelming. A stark contrast to the rarefied atmosphere of his father's study, which smelled primarily of old paper, beeswax, and unspoken judgment.
Right, Operation: Soap Tycoon, Phase One, Lloyd thought, his internal eighty-year-old strategist kicking into gear. Secure primary resources and essential personnel. Step one: acquire Agent J.
He paused just inside the massive arched doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light and the whirlwind of activity. Cooks in sweat-stained white aprons brandished knives with terrifying speed, pot boys staggered under the weight of steaming cauldrons, maids scrubbed furiously at unseen grime, and overseeing it all, like a conductor leading a particularly boisterous orchestra, was Martha, the Head Cook. Her expression, currently fixed on a pot that threatened to boil over, suggested imminent eruption.
Best avoid the General for now, Lloyd decided. He needed subtlety, not a public interrogation about his sudden interest in kitchen operations.
His presence hadn't gone unnoticed. The relentless rhythm of chopping and stirring faltered slightly as nearby staff registered the incongruous sight of the Young Lord, Arch Duke Ferrum's heir, standing hesitantly in their domain. Whispers erupted like escaping steam.
"Look! Young Lord Ferrum!"
"Again? What's he doing down here?"
"First the wolf-chicken business, now this…"
"Maybe he's finally developed an interest in decent food?" A snort followed this.
"Hush! Martha'll have your hide!"
Lloyd ignored them, letting the whispers fade into the background noise. He scanned the room, his gaze methodical, sweeping past the pastry section where delicate tarts were being assembled, past the huge hearth where spits turned rhythmically, towards the far end of the vast, cavernous space. The butchery section. Less glamorous, smelling more intensely of raw meat and iron, often populated by tougher, quieter staff. His target wouldn't be center stage. She preferred the shadows, the periphery.
Where is she… Ah.
There. Almost hidden behind a massive side of beef hanging from a thick iron hook, a slender figure worked with focused intensity. Head bowed under a plain white cap, dark hair escaping in damp tendrils, apron liberally stained. Her movements were precise, economical, as she wielded a long, wickedly sharp trimming knife with a dexterity that belied her unassuming frame. Methodically separating fat from muscle, her concentration absolute.
Jasmin.
Target acquired, Lloyd confirmed internally. He began to move, weaving through the organized chaos, nodding politely but vaguely at any staff member whose eye he caught, deliberately projecting an air of purpose that hopefully discouraged interruption. He sidestepped a boy carrying a tray piled high with skinned rabbits, skirted around a puddle of questionable origin near the scullery sinks, and ignored the increasingly curious stares directed his way.
Why was the Young Lord heading there? Towards the butchery corner? Towards Jasmin? The quiet girl? The whispers intensified, curiosity piqued.
Jasmin, utterly absorbed in her task, didn't notice his approach until his shadow fell directly across the thick wooden chopping block where she worked. She looked up, startled, her hand freezing mid-slice. Recognition dawned in her large, dark eyes, quickly followed by wide-eyed alarm. The trimming knife clattered onto the block as she hastily wiped her hands on her stained apron, her breath catching in her throat. She dropped into a deep, flustered curtsy, her head bowed so low her cap threatened to slide off.
"Y-Young Lord Ferrum!" Her voice was a thin thread of sound, barely audible above the kitchen's roar. She trembled slightly, like a startled fawn cornered by a wolf – or perhaps, in her eyes, something even more intimidating: nobility descending into her mundane world.
Okay, calm down, Lloyd, he coached himself. Need her relaxed, not terrified. Project calm authority, not 'potentially insane heir demanding weird things'.
He remembered her from his first life. The quiet competence beneath the crippling shyness. After the assassinations, when Rubel's faction tightened its grip and paranoia reigned, she'd been one of the few faces he instinctively trusted. He'd discovered her secret then – not just her surprising skill with a butcher's knife, but her uncanny ability to navigate the estate's hidden passages, her knowledge of the servant grapevine, her quiet loyalty to the memory of the main family. A hidden gem. One he intended to polish and utilize far earlier this time around.