Arthur stared at her profile. For the first time in years, the word didn't sound like a lie: home.
"Yes," he said, following her up the path. "Let's go."
The kitchen of Harrow Gate felt entirely different that evening. It was no longer a tomb. The massive hearth blazed, casting a warm orange glow across the stone walls and the newly scrubbed flagstones. The scent of roasting chicken filled the air—a heavy, intoxicating perfume of melted butter, sage, and crispy skin.
Beatrice was at the wooden table, her sleeves rolled up, working flour and butter into a pastry crust. She moved with practiced, efficient grace, the flour dusting her forearms like snow.
Arthur sat on a small wooden stool near the fire. He was peeling potatoes. It was a staggering sight: the Duke of Ashborne, a man who once dined with royalty, was hunched over a tin bucket, meticulously shaving the skins off dirty root vegetables with a paring knife. He moved slowly, his bandaged hands clumsy, but he didn't stop. He hadn't asked if he could help; he had simply picked up the knife and sat down.
Silence stretched between them, but it had changed. The prickly, hostile quiet of the first few days had dissolved. This silence was companionable; it was the hum of shared work.
"You cut the skins too thick," Beatrice observed, not looking up from her dough. "You're losing half the potato."
Arthur paused. He looked down at the pale, angular lump in his hand, then at the thick ribbon of skin in the bucket. "I am unaccustomed to the geometry of vegetables."
"Clearly." She rolled out the dough with a heavy wooden pin. "Use a lighter touch. Let the blade do the work. Don't force it."
Arthur adjusted his grip. He tried again. The skin came off in a thinner strip. "Like this?"
"Better."
He dropped the peeled potato into a bowl of clean water. He watched her for a moment. The firelight caught the dust of flour on her cheek.
"Where did you learn to bargain with butchers?" he asked.