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pleased to discover his cook berating his Handmaiden? Even if he holds no great affection for me, he is paying dearly for my services. He’d be no more likely to accept you treating me badly than he would if you abused a fine carriage horse or hunting hound.”
    “You liken yourself to a horse or a hound and yet you get affronted when I call you a whore?”
    Quilla shrugged and went back to arranging the tray to make it easier to carry. “I’m no more that than you, Florentine. We’re both paid to perform a service to the master. You to feed his body, I his soul.”
    Florentine huffed. “But you don’t deny you’d warm his bed if he asked.”
    Quilla regarded Florentine with a raised eyebrow. “And you wouldn’t?”
    That seemed to stun the fat chatelaine into silence, jaw agape and eyes wide. Yet she didn’t deny the assertion, and Quilla pushed past her to open the glass-fronted doors to the pantry cupboard.
    “This will do.” She plucked a white linen napkin from a pile of them and settled it onto the tray. “Thank you, Florentine.”
    “You don’t . . . you don’t . . .”
    Quilla paused in lifting the tray to look at her. “You’d do it if he wanted it, because you love him and are grateful to him. But you would not do it because you desire him. So why is it so hard for you to understand my place? I would do the same.”
    Florentine seemed to recover a bit. “Our lord Delessan has been naught but kind to me. Always.”
    “And you’d do anything to repay him. I understand.” Quilla cocked her head and hefted the tray, then carried it to the small cupboard lift set into the wall. She put the tray inside and closed the door before turning. “You know, Florentine, should you ever wish to talk—”
    “To you?” The sneer became more pronounced. “As if I’d share my soul with the likes of you!”
    “Sometimes it feels good to share it with someone.” Quilla tugged the rope that operated the lift, and when the tray had made its way up, she left the kitchen.
    He was still working when she returned to his lab. He didn’t even turn when she opened the door, and she congratulated herself on the now silent hinges. Quilla busied herself with setting the small table next to the chair, arranging the food and utensils in a pleasing display that also allowed the maximum ease of access.
    “Your mercy, my lord.” She kept her voice pitched low, an interruption as nonjarring and subtle as the oiling of the hinges. “I’ve brought you some food.”
    He turned, gaze cloudy at first but clearing within moments. “I didn’t ask for any.”
    “You did not need to ask, my lord. It’s my purpose and my pl—” She paused, remembering how he’d taken offense at the rote Handmaiden answer. “It’s my purpose to provide what you need before you need it.”
    He nodded. She expected a snide comment, perhaps even a frown, but Delessan instead took off his apron and ran a hand through his dark hair. A strand fell over his eyes and he pushed it back impatiently, striding to the chair and flopping into it without much seeming enthusiasm at the prospect of a meal.
    He reached for the utensils, but Quilla had already lifted the napkin and shook it out, then placed it on his lap. He stopped, fork in hand, as though she’d burned him. Quilla watched him from lowered eyes, her outward appearance still calm as she poured his mug full of ale, continuing her work while pretending not to notice his sudden reaction.
    She gestured to the bowl of warm water and the soft towel she’d added to the tray. “Surely you’d care to wash your hands before you eat? To rid them of the chemicals?”
    Delessan put the fork down with a click against the table. “Of course.”
    Quilla lifted the pitcher of water and the small cake of soap. “Will you allow me to help you?”
    She always had to ask, the first time, lest a patron did not wish assistance. She’d found phrasing the question as a request made them more