No.
I struggled when his other hand touched the wolf-capped inkwell to my collarbone, just as Des Rêves had touched her talon to Zosa. Magic hummed in my skull and tightened around my neck, choking me, as those six purple sentences glowed hot then dissolved into the parchment.
With this demotion, you will forget everything.
Forget your home.
Forget your position.
Forget your friends.
Forget your sister.
Forget your name.
“Mol!”
Chef jabbed her finger, pointing past my shoulder. “You’ve worked in the kitchens for five weeks. Can’t you tell when a pot’s boiling over?”
Nine waist-high copper vats bubbled before me, the sixth one currently overflowing. Damn it. Drips of cream hissed against hot coals. Everything was hot. Sweat slicked the handle of my brittle wooden spoon. Don’t you dare snap, spoon. I plunged it into the steaming liquid. My forearms strained as I turned the spoon in a slow arc. A circle. Soup sloshed up, adding to the mess of stains gathering across my kitchen frock.
Chef walked over and sniffed the sixth pot. “Burned. Entire thing is garbage. Too busy daydreaming, Mol?” When I didn’t answer, her lip curled. “Mol?”
I swore under my breath. I’d been called that name countless times since that night in Alastair’s office, but it still felt like someone getting my attention by slapping someone else.
After a demotion, a worker was always given a new name. Although it didn’t seem to matter. Aside from basic knowledge about the hotel, like the locations of the lavatories, demoted workers weren’t supposed to remember a thing about working in their previous positions.
But I did.
Alastair had used his ink to amend the contract I’d signed and demote me. The ink should have worked, but for some reason that I couldn’t figure out, it didn’t take. I remembered everything. I just couldn’t let anybody else know.
I wrinkled my nose at the burned soup. “I’m sorry.”
Chef glared. “You’ve been here for weeks. You should know better.”
“Give the girl a chance. She’s still learning, aren’t you, Mol?” Béatrice came around the corner.
Chef shifted her attention to Béatrice. “What are you doing down here?”
Béatrice held up a basket of empty satchels. “A duke in the Of Mischief and Masquerade Suite requested lavender for his wardrobe. I was hoping Mol might give me a hand.” She grinned at me conspiratorially. “Surely you could spare her for a few minutes.”
Chef wasn’t a suminaire as far as I could tell, and it was an unspoken rule that suminaires had seniority over normal workers regardless of station. But that didn’t stop Chef from giving the head of housekeeping one of her signature stern looks. “As long as Mol is back before another pot burns.”
As Chef walked off, Béatrice threw a crass gesture at her back. I pressed my lips together to stifle a laugh.
Over the past few weeks, Béatrice often visited to check on a few kitchen workers, including myself. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I sensed that she came down here because she felt guilt over my demotion; she seemed to be looking out for me, especially around Chef.
Whatever the case, I was grateful. She’d become a good friend, even in spite of her big opinions, and little respect for personal space.
She pinched my cheek. “You’re looking too pale and thin, Mol. You should visit the forêt à manger.”
She meant the dining hall on the service floor where workers took meals. It was an enchanted forest of honeyed meats and sugary cakes. The entire room was created for a guest fête, then repurposed for staff.
I’d gone once weeks ago. Never again. Working in the kitchens was difficult enough. The last thing I needed was to dine with someone who would call me Mol then run to Alastair when I mistakenly corrected them.
“I eat in my room.”
“Suit yourself, ma chérie. But don’t think you’re off the hook that easily. You know . . .” Béatrice smirked. “I could always order L’Entourage de Beauté to put a little glow on your cheeks.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I said in mock shock.
“They could freshen your hair, tidy that rag of a dress.”
“I’d never speak to you again.”
“Then you’d be awfully lonely down here, weeping into soup, no friend to put up with your pouting.”
“I’d make friends with Chef.”
She barked a laugh. “What would you do? Braid each other’s hair?”