Theo rose, wrapped her dressing gown around herself, and crossed to the window. Outside, fog clung to the gardens like a veil, obscuring the hedges and the half-toppled statue of what might have once been Apollo, now missing a head and most of his dignity. She allowed herself one deep breath, one moment of stillness, then rang the bell.
No one came.
After fifteen minutes, she dressed herself. She dressed in a house gown she found hanging in the armoire—not hers. Nothing here was. Her maid had produced a nightgown the evening before, but no one had informed her where her trunks had been placed, and her belongings remained otherwise untouched. It seemed no one had yet decided where a countess belonged in this house. The gown was a modest morning dress of dove gray, well-cut, but decades out of fashion. She added her own shawl, dark blue wool with embroidered vines, and pinned up her golden-brown hair into a precise knot.
Downstairs, she finally found the kitchen. It was not a kitchen. It was a battlefield. There was flour on the floor, a cat on the table, and a man, round and red-cheeked, arguing loudly with a small girl carrying a tray of broken eggs.
"You don't toss them like that!" the man bellowed.
"I didn't toss them! I tripped on the bloody turnips!"
"You don't trip on turnips! You avoid turnips!"
Theo stepped into the room. "Good morning."
Silence dropped like a guillotine. The cook—she assumed he was the cook—turned to her, one flour-dusted hand on his hip. "And you'd be Lady Harkort?"
She said evenly, "Your employer."
The little girl dropped into a curtsy so deep her knees cracked. The cook stared. "Well," he said finally, "that explains the dress."
"And the title," Theo added.
"You weren't due until next week."
"I was married yesterday."
"Well, no one tells me anything."
"You may now consider yourself told." She looked around. "Who is in charge of the kitchen?"
"I am," he said proudly. "Cook Trenum."
"I see. Cook Trenum, might I suggest a revised pantry inventory, a removal of all animals from food preparation surfaces, and a proper breakfast for two served in the morning room by nine?"
He blinked. "For two?"
"My husband and I will be eating together."
"I didn't think the master—"
"You will find I do not particularly care what the master usually does."
He stared at her, then barked out a laugh. "You'll do, my lady. You'll do just fine."
Theo swept from the room before he could see her smile. By the time she reached the morning room, it had been hastily dusted—poorly—and the windows opened to let in the gray light. She took a seat near the fireplace, whose embers had gone cold sometime in the last century. A pot of tea appeared shortly after, followed by toast, marmalade, and two perfectly soft-boiled eggs. It was not elegant, but it was hers.
Nate arrived twenty minutes late. He wore a dark coat, shirt half unbuttoned, no cravat. His blonde hair was tied back loosely, and he looked at the toast as if it had personally insulted him.
"You're up early," he said, dropping into the chair opposite her. "It's nearly ten."
He poured himself tea. No sugar, no cream. "You've conquered the kitchen then."
"Not conquered. Secured."
"I dare say Cook Trenum has met his match."
Theo buttered her toast. "That remains to be seen. The cat, however, has been banished from the table."
"A pity. She has excellent table manners."
She didn't rise to the bait. He watched her from across the table, eyes sharp. "You're very calm."
"I was raised to be."
"And you intend to run my house?"
"Not intend. I am already doing so."
That made him grin. "And what would you like to begin with, my lady? The east wing, the laundry, the cursed attic?"
"First," she said, placing her teacup gently down, "I would like a full list of your remaining staff. Second, I want to know which rooms are habitable and which are hazards. Third, I would appreciate access to the household accounts, assuming they haven't been lost to mildew or myth."
"You're not going to ask me for permission."
"No."
He leaned back in his chair. "God, you're terrifying."
"Good. You'll survive longer that way."
He laughed, a real one, and it startled her.
After breakfast, he gave her a brief and incomplete tour of the house. Half the rooms were locked. Many were draped in cloths or packed with crates from his travels abroad. One room had a floor that creaked in a particularly ominous pattern, and another had been turned into a sort of private study filled with maps, daggers, and what looked suspiciously like a stuffed owl.