Chapter 13: The Kitchen and the Blood (Part 1)
Emma Craven’s second official day at Ross Manor began with fewer broken vases and more determination. Mrs. Whitmore had woken her with a gentle knock on the door at six-thirty and a firm, “Breakfast on the table in five minutes.” Emma had obeyed, put on the same pair of jeans (now officially her “work pants”), and headed downstairs, determined not to destroy anything more than a hundred years old.
The morning passed in practical tasks: folding sheets, organizing the pantry, and learning the difference between floor cloths and dishcloths (Mrs. Whitmore was extremely particular about that). At noon, the housekeeper announced that she needed to go to the nearest village to do some shopping and that Emma would be in charge of the kitchen until late afternoon.
“Don’t get any bright ideas,” was the woman’s final warning before leaving. “There’s food ready in the fridge. Just heat it up if you get hungry. And don’t touch the locked cabinet.”
Emma nodded with the seriousness of someone who had just received military orders.
As soon as the housekeeper’s car disappeared down the dirt road, the mansion’s silence returned to its absolute state. Emma found herself alone in the enormous kitchen, surrounded by copper pots, sharp knives, and a modern refrigerator that seemed out of place with everything else. She opened the door, inspected the contents, and frowned.
There was food. Lots of food. But everything seemed… prepared for one person. Or for no one at all.
“All right,” she murmured. “Time to act like a real housekeeper. I’m going to cook something. Something human. Something that smells like a normal home.”
She decided to make a simple stew. Potatoes, carrots, some meat she found carefully wrapped, and seasonings she recognized. She lit the old stove (which, to her surprise, worked perfectly), set a large pot on it, and began chopping the vegetables with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.
As she worked, her mental list updated itself automatically:
“Thirty-one: cook without setting the mansion on fire.
Thirty-two: don’t cut my own finger. Blood in the kitchen sounds like a bad omen.
Thirty-three: make food that smells good enough for the boss to realize there’s human life down here.”
The smell of sautéed onions began to spread through the kitchen. Emma smiled, pleased with herself. For the first time since arriving, the kitchen felt less like a museum and more like… a home. She hummed softly to an old song her father used to listen to, stirring the pot every now and then.
That was when she felt it.
She heard no footsteps. No door opening. Just a sudden change in the air, as if the temperature had dropped two degrees and the silence had grown heavier.
Emma spun around, the knife still in her hand.
Nicco Ross was leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching her with that inscrutable expression she was beginning to associate with interesting, but potentially problematic.
She let out a short squeal, and the knife nearly slipped from her grasp.
“Mr. Ross! I… I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I noticed,” he replied, his voice as dry as ever.
His dark eyes moved over the pot, the cutting board, and the makeshift apron Emma had put on (a dish towel tied around her waist).
“What are you doing?”
“Cooking. Food. Human. Normal.” She gestured toward the pot. “Stew. I thought… well, I thought someone might eat it.”
Nicco approached without hurrying. He stopped at a polite distance from the central island and tilted his head, examining the contents of the pot as though it were an archaeological artifact.
“It smells… acceptable.”
“Acceptable is the best compliment I’ve ever received in a kitchen,” Emma said, trying to hide her nervousness. “Would you like to try some? It’s still early, but I can…”