Sunlight streamed through the high kitchen windows in sharp golden spears, igniting wisps of steam that rose from bubbling cauldrons and turning drifting flour particles into fleeting sparks. The vast space pulsed with morning energy.
Blades chopped in steady cadence, fat crackled on spits, scullions clattered pans against stone sinks. Scents collided crisp loaves cooling on racks, frying rashers, bruised sage from the herb trough, and the warm spice of simmering oats.
Victoria entered via the narrow service passage, the latch falling shut with a muted thud. Fury from Harlan's dawn report still simmered beneath her skin; hunger gnawed twice as fiercely.
The moment she appeared, activity stuttered. A ladle slipped from a cook's fingers; eggs shattered on the floor; a girl stifled a gasp. Victoria paid them no mind. Her focus locked on Catherine at the opposite end of the scarred oak table, sleeves pushed high, stirring a deep pot of porridge with calm, unhurried strokes.
Catherine glanced up, read the storm in her queen's expression, and instantly laid the spoon aside.She knew that impression,the queen must be furious from something.
"Your Majesty," she said quietly, sinking into a graceful dip. "I expected you might appear soon after the morning's tidings. Something is already prepared."
Victoria crossed the length of the room and settled onto the head cook's tall stool without ceremony. Catherine moved smoothly: she filled a plain clay bowl with thick, creamy oats, drizzled dark honey in lazy spirals, sprinkled toasted hazelnuts and plump raisins, then finished with a generous spoonful of thick cream. Next came a side plate two hot griddle cakes, fresh butter melting into their golden surface, and a slice of tangy, veined cheese.
No silver service. No flourish. Just nourishment.
Victoria broke a griddle cake, spread butter thickly, and bit down. The crust shattered; warmth flooded her mouth, rich and grounding. She shut her eyes briefly, letting the simple pleasure blunt the edge of her anger.
"Perfect," she murmured.
Catherine slid a small goblet of mulled cider across the table clove, star anise, a bright hint of citrus and retreated half a step, polishing the spoon she had used, offering quiet space while staying near enough to anticipate any need.
Victoria ate steadily, tearing into the second cake, then spooning up the oats in deep, deliberate mouthfuls. The hazelnuts snapped between her teeth; honey soothed her throat; cream coated her tongue in luxurious silk. For several minutes the only sounds were the gentle scrape of spoon against clay, the distant crackle of the hearth, and the subdued rhythm of the kitchen resuming its work at the far wall eyes averted, voices hushed.
When the bowl stood nearly empty, Victoria eased back, wiping her lips with the side of her thumb in an unguarded motion no courtier would ever witness.
"What whispers are circulating below stairs this morning?" she asked, voice pitched for Catherine alone. "About the missing wagons. About my name."
Catherine chose her reply with exact care. "Nothing venomous, Majesty. Merely that the highways have grown perilous. A few point fingers at the border barons probing the king's strength now that frost grips the land. Others speak of misfortune, claiming the absence of a prince has displeased heaven." She held Victoria's gaze without wavering. "I cut every careless remark short. I reminded them that reckless speech costs heads—and that any slur against you reaches me before it can spread."
Victoria's mouth curved in a brief, approving slash. "Keep cutting. Sharper, if you must."
Catherine inclined her head. "Without fail, my queen."
Victoria rose, brushing stray crumbs from her skirt with a flick of her wrist. The hollow in her stomach had eased; in its place burned a colder, keener appetite.
"Send a tray to my solar near midday," she instructed. "Roast partridge, perhaps, with those honeyed figs you prepare so well. I shall require fortitude today."
Catherine curtsied once more. "It will be waiting, Majesty."
Victoria reached the door, fingers curling around the latch. She glanced back, tone dropping to velvet menace meant for one ear only.
"Should even one voice dare breathe pity, uncertainty, or anything short of reverence when my name is spoken… bring word to me instantly."
Catherine's expression remained serene, resolute. "The instant it touches my hearing, Majesty."
Victoria gave a single, decisive nod and stepped into the corridor.
Behind her the kitchens stirred back to life quieter now, more cautious, every clank and murmur subdued.
She climbed the stairs with fresh resolve, the lingering sweetness of honey and hazelnut still warm on her lips.
The vanished gold would be tracked.
The child would arrive by potion, by will, by whatever ruthless path opened.
And when both were hers…
She would devour something far more satisfying than breakfast.
Absolute dominion.
No hesitation.
No mercy.
She was no longer merely hungry.
She was insatiable.