Chapter 12 · The Iron Spoon

The kitchen at six in the morning smelled like cold bacon grease and Delgado’s attitude.

"You can't be in here."

Delgado had her own name embroidered on her apron like she owned the damn estate. She squared her shoulders, planting two hundred pounds of stubborn cook right between me and the stove.

Too bad for her. I wasn't going for the stove. I was going for the bread.

"She's not on the schedule," the footman muttered. He talked to the subway tile. Not to my face.

"I'm on the keys." I hauled the ring out of my jeans pocket. Nine heavy brass keys, still hot from riding against my hip all night. "You want to count them?"

Neither of them moved. That’s how you know a ring of master keys talks louder than rank.

I dropped them onto the butcher block. Hard.

The crack echoed off the copper pots. I shoved past Delgado’s shoulder and yanked open the bread box.

"She won't eat," Delgado snapped behind me. "She hasn't eaten since Tuesday. You think you're the first genius in this house who noticed a six-year-old is starving?"

Tuesday.

That stopped my hand cold on the loaf. Not the sass.