“Milord needs blood. And he will not take it unless it is prepared just so.”
Chef led me to the game room, where the carcasses of several beasts were suspended over silver troughs to catch the blood falling from their severed necks.
“Only silver, glass, or pottery should be used to collect blood for milord, or he refuses it,” Chef instructed with a raised finger.
“Why?” I asked.
“Other vessels taint the blood with bad odors and tastes. This is pure. Smell,” Chef instructed, handing me the cup. My stomach heaved at the metallic aroma, and I covered my mouth and nose. Alain motioned the blood away, but I stopped him with a glance.
“Continue, please, Chef.”
Chef gave me an approving look and began to describe the other delicacies that made up Matthew’s diet. He told me of Matthew’s love of beef broth fortified with wine and spices and served cool. Matthew would take partridge blood, provided it was in small quantities and not too early in the day. Madame de Clermont was not so fussy, Chef said with a sorrowful shake of his head, but she had not passed her impressive appetite to her son.
“No,” I said tightly, thinking of my hunting trip with Ysabeau.
Chef put the tip of his finger into the silver cup and held it up, shimmering red in the light, before inserting it into his mouth and letting the lifeblood roll over his tongue. “Stag’s blood is his favorite, of course. It is not as rich as human blood, but it is similar in taste.”
“May I?” I asked hesitantly, extending my little finger toward the cup. Venison turned my stomach. Perhaps the taste of a stag’s blood would be different.
“Milord would not like it, Madame de Clermont,” Alain said, his concern evident.
“But he is not here,” I said. I dipped the tip of my little finger into the cup. The blood was thick, and I brought it to my nose and sniffed it as Chef had. What scent did Matthew detect? What flavors did he perceive?
When my finger passed over my lips, my senses were flooded with information: wind on a craggy peak, the comfort of a bed of leaves in a hollow between two trees, the joy of running free. Accompanying it all was a steady, thundering beat. A pulse, a heart.
My experience of the deer’s life faded all too quickly. I reached out my finger with a fierce desire to know more, but Alain’s hand stopped mine. Still the hunger for information gnawed at me, its intensity diminishing as the last traces of blood left my mouth.
“Perhaps madame should go back to the library now,” Alain suggested, giving Chef a warning look.
On my way out of the kitchens, I told Chef what to do when Matthew and Philippe returned from their ride. We were passing through a long stone corridor when I stopped abruptly at a low, open door. Pierre narrowly avoided plowing into me.
“Whose room is this?” I asked, my throat closing at the scent of the herbs that hung from the rafters.
“It belongs to Madame de Clermont’s woman,” Alain explained.
“Marthe,” I breathed, stepping over the threshold. Earthenware pots stood in neat rows on shelves, and the floor was swept clean. There was something medicinal—mint?—in the tang of the air. It reminded me of the scent that sometimes drifted from the housekeeper’s clothes. When I turned, the three of them were blocking the doorway.
“The men are not allowed in here, madame,” Pierre confessed, looking over his shoulder as though he feared that Marthe might appear at any moment. “Only Marthe and Mademoiselle Louisa spend time in the stillroom. Not even Madame de Clermont disturbs this place.”
Ysabeau didn’t approve of Marthe’s herbal remedies—this I knew. Marthe was not a witch, but her potions were only a few steps away from Sarah’s lore. My eyes swept the room. There was more to be done in a kitchen than cooking, and more to learn from the sixteenth century than the management of household affairs and my own magic.
“I would like to use the stillroom while at SeptTours.”
Alain looked at me sharply. “Use it?”
I nodded. “For my alchemy. Please have two barrels of wine brought here for my use—as old as possible, but nothing that’s turned to vinegar. Give me a few moments alone to take stock of what’s here.”
Pierre and Alain shifted nervously at the unexpected development. After weighing my resolve against his companions’ uncertainty, Chef took charge, pushing the other men in the direction of the kitchens.
As Pierre’s grumbling faded, I focused on my surroundings. The wooden table before me was deeply scored from the work of hundreds of knives that had separated leaf from stalk. I ran a finger down one of the grooves and brought it to my nose.