Monica's bare feet patted down the hall softly. Torches blazed in their holders, their flames likely renewed by the servants who got up early to prepare the morning meal. The warmth emanating from down the passage felt wonderful to the cold princess, and she accelerated. While the other corridors of the castles were filled with servants at this time, this one was empty. No one ever needed to come to her tower. Monica ignored the loneliness in the back of her mind and gave the door that led to the other parts of the castle a light push. From here, another flight of stairs opened onto the kitchen. She descended, the heated air of the castle's lower parts brushing against her face pleasantly. The grease-stained kitchen door was half open and the firelight from within spilled onto the floor.

Monica took her courage in hand and went in. A fire burned merrily in the hearth, crackling and snapping at the pot of porridge hanging above it. The cook, a plump, angry woman who Monica feared for her harsh tongue, bent over the cauldron, stirring fiercely. She shot a furious eye over her shoulder at the girl standing hesitatingly in the doorway.

"If ye want breakfast, yer too late to eat with yer sisters," the cook growled.

Monica had come down an hour earlier than any of the sisters ate one day, and she had still been "too late" to eat with her sisters. She assumed it was something other than time that formed the divide between them.

"I don't mean to cause trouble for you," she said pleasantly, though with a longing look at the bubbling pot. "What can I do for you?"

The woman blew out a loud breath and wiped her lips with a fat hand. "'Tis so hot in here I don't hev the energy to make another breakfast. Make yer own meal."

Monica looked again at the pot. "What is that porridge for if not for me?" 

"Yer sisters."

"Then why can't I eat with them if you're still preparing their meal?" Monica asked, trying to be polite.

The cook slammed her ladle down, lunging at the princess. Monica flinched back as the woman yelled, "Ye can't eat with 'em, and ye can't eat the porridge with 'em! Make yer own meal!"

Monica felt her lip trembling, so she straightened it and her back and strode past the rude servant. She pulled a pan out from a stack of tableware, removed grit from it with her thumbnail, and opened the pantry to look for viable options. Already she felt ashamed for arguing with the woman. It was how it was every morning. Every morning she came down to find a meal being prepared that was not for her. There was no point in trying to fix it or find out why. Her story was almost complete, and she could leave soon. Making the cook angry only made the morning unpleasant, for the woman possessed an absolute talent for torturing people with silence.

She fished through the hanging strings of dried onions and herbs to the back of the cabinet. "How has your morning been? Feeling better from that headache?" she inquired, trying to make it up to the woman.

"My morning was better 'til a little twerp popped in," the cook snapped as she prodded the fire with a poker.

Monica resisted the urge to ask, "Who was THAT?" with a sigh. Fine then. If the woman would not play nice, there was no point to smoothing things over.

She found a small dried herring in the back of the cupboard. She slapped it in her pan and moved to the fire. Fish for the third day in a row. She did not much like the salty taste of it, but it was about the only food she could take without the cook clucking disapprovingly at her.

Why do I care what some rude woman thinks? she thought half-heartedly. My father owns this castle, and he owns this food. Wouldn't he want his daughter to eat heartily?

She rubbed her forehead with one hand as she held the pan over the fire with the other. Sometimes the servants seemed to know what her father thought better than she did. After all, they probably saw him every day, while the last time she had seen him was years ago. He stayed in his wing of the castle, while her sisters quarrelled and screamed at one another in the other. 

The cook pushed her out of the way so she could make soothing noises at the porridge and begin serving it. Grumble, grumble. Monica was glad when she left to serve the other princesses. She flipped her fish over and admired the browning she had achieved. The up side to this was that she had become a pretty good cook - with fish. She looked longingly at the big ham hanging precariously from the rafters. What could she accomplish with proper ingredients...? 

There was no point in hoping for it until she married. Her prince would let her cook, of course. Some days she could kick all the servants out of the kitchen and just sail in, apron flying in the gusts from the fire. Monica flipped her poor, sad, shrivelled fish over and slid it onto a plate. Opening a drawer, she selected some silverware and sat down at the kitchen table. To eat. Alone.