"Yes, ma'am," Frederick said resignedly. She'd want him to load it extra full every time he brought it in, too, so he could show the ladies he was not only graceful but also a nice, strong buck. One arm and shoulder would hurt tomorrow, but would she care? Not likely! She wouldn't feel a thing.

In the kitchen, they were straining broth through cheesecloth. More swank. It would taste the same either way. But the mistress wanted it clear, so clear it would be. If that made extra work for the cooks, what were they there for but work?

"You watch those oil thrushes!" the head cook-Davey-called to a scullery maid who was turning the birds' spits over a fire. "Watch 'em, I tell you! Anything happens to 'em, I'll serve them fancy ladies a roast nigger with an apple in her mouth, you hear me?"

Eyes enormous, the maid nodded. She couldn't have been more than twelve. Frederick wouldn't have been surprised if she thought the cook would really do it. Frederick knew Davey might be tempted, at that. The kitchen was his domain. The mistress might intrude here, but only in the way storms or fires intruded on a bigger domain. Once the storm blew over or the fire went out, the place was his again.

"How soon you be ready?" Frederick asked Davey. "She wants me to start serving at two o'clock sharp-two by the clock."

The head cook looked outside to gauge the shadows. Then he looked up at the roughly plastered ceiling, adjusting between what the sun said and what the clock claimed. The whole business took no more than a few seconds. His gaze came back to Frederick. "We make it," he said.

"That's all right, then." Frederick asked no more questions. When Davey said the kitchen would do this or that, it would.

And it did. The cooks put chopped scallions and bits of spiced pork back into their marvelously clear broth. The tray Frederick used to carry the bounty into the dining room was at least three feet across. Grunting, he got it up on his left shoulder and steadied it with his right arm.