Chapter 9: The Good Tea

I went down the servants' stairs in my nightgown and shawl with the tea boy running ahead.

The still room was warm already, the bread oven going.

The cook stood at the long table with her floury arms folded, staring at the King's silver caddy.

She was a broad woman with a red face and a voice that could stop a dropped plate.

"He came in at four," she said. "With his own key. I was up for the bread. He didn't see me behind the flour bins."

"Did he say anything?"

"He hummed." She sniffed. "Hummed, filling a sick man's caddy. Then off he went."

I opened the lid.

Bright green. New front door green.

Twice as bright as before.

"He's doubled it," I said.

The cook looked at me hard for a long moment.

"His Highness told me what's in that," she said. "Last night, when he came down for the broth."

"Everything?"

"Near enough. He sat on my bins and talked for an hour."

"And you believed him?"

"I've cooked for that man since he was in short coats. He's never lied to me except about the tarts."

She uncrossed her arms.

"What do we do?"

"We?"

"It's my still room," said the cook. "Nobody poisons anyone out of my still room."

So we did it every morning.

The cook kept the King's caddy in the cupboard by the oven, where nobody could reach it without passing her.

At half past five the scullery maids took turns watching the passage.

One of them sang a hymn when anyone came down the stairs.

The other one just dropped a pan.

At a quarter to six I came down and tipped Father's leaf into a big stoneware jar.

The cook tied the lid down with string and wrote on it in flour: DO NOT TOUCH.

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