I headed to the kitchen with my pulse in my throat and the corridor's stone cool under my boots. I had rehearsed the sequence until my shoulders ached; tonight I had to do it in front of people who actually mattered. I could only hope I did not mess it up. With every step the passage seemed to lengthen, then snapped back to normal scale when I reached the galley.
Rounding the corner, I stopped. The tables were not empty. The kitchen staff sat in place, plates cleared, cups half-full, and Lune with them, calm like this were the most ordinary thing in the world. I stared, wrong-footed.
"The dinner service?" I asked.
"Already dealt with," Lune said. "But the one you will be working is right here."
She gestured toward the serving hatch. Trays were already loaded, lids on, steam barely curling at the edges, the whole row waiting there like a dare.
Guests. I had been bracing for strangers in fine cloth, for faces I could pretend not to know tomorrow. Instead I got the people who had watched me fumble a napkin and corrected my grip on a tray until my wrists burned. Not guests. Worse. They would see everything: every hesitation, every half-beat I had hoped a distracted noble might miss.
I understood what she had done, or what the house had done through her. A stranger might forgive a stumble because they did not know better. These people would know exactly what a stumble meant about Watson's training, about Lune's time, about whether I was worth the slot I occupied.
My test tonight really was a small service, but not the one I had been expecting. A smirk tried to surface; I killed it and straightened. This was still a test of everything I had learned. It was not a ballroom full of titles, but the stakes had shifted: professionals who knew what to look for. If anything, I would be under more scrutiny now than in front of real guests who only wanted their wine topped and their egos stroked.
I walked to the hatch, picked up a tray, held it by the center bottom with my other hand behind my back the way Watson had shown, and moved toward the table. Walk, turn, set the tray before lifting the lid. Step back one pace and turn for the next tray.
My footfalls were still a little heavy. I did not have his years of practice, but it was better than before our lessons.
The table murmured with quiet chatter, but I could feel the weight of attention: no one commenting, no one correcting, just watching. Waiting. My neck prickled; heat crawled up from my collar. My mind narrowed to the sequence: tray, lid, step, breathe. Perform.
I was about halfway through when I reached Lune's place.
As I lowered the tray, I breathed in without meaning to.
Her hair, the smell of her soap, something floral I could not name, warmth filled my head all at once. For a fraction of a second my hands forgot what they were doing. The tray tipped; I jerked to correct and overcorrected, metal skidding audibly against the edge of the table before I caught it. My stomach dropped. Do not look at her face. Do not look at anyone.
The slip felt worse than clumsiness. It felt like proof I could not split my head the way the job demanded, not yet, maybe not ever if I kept letting my attention snag on the wrong details.
I cleared my throat, fixed my grip, and lifted the tray just enough to reset. My second approach was slower, more deliberate. This time the placement sat true. I removed the lid, took the half-pace back, and returned to the hatch on legs that did not quite trust the floor.
Only when I was facing the wall did I let out a breath I had not known I was holding. I had messed up. They had all seen it.
The final trays went out clean. I positioned myself toward the back of the room against the wall, stance straight, professional, and waited for a raised hand or the end of the meal, whichever came first.
A few hands went up for water refills throughout; I obliged each time, grateful for motion over stillness.
When dinner was finished, I reversed everything: trays from table to hatch, lids stacked, rhythm steadier now that the worst stumble was behind me. This pass felt flawless, at least by my own standards.
After the last tray was returned, I turned and waited. Lune's hand rose; I was already moving before I had finished the thought, reaching for her cup.
Her fingers closed gently on my wrist, stopping me cold.
"Well done, Edgar. Take a seat." She motioned to the place beside hers as she rose. "You still have a lot of practice to do. Keep at it, and maybe one day you can serve Watson himself." She smirked and headed into the kitchen.
As she left, the table erupted.
"Bloody good job, laddie!" Angus leaned in until I could count the freckles on his nose. "A fine dinner service. I felt like a damn king! Am I right, lads!?" The rest of the table cheered and raised their cups. I laughed despite myself, heat in my cheeks from the blunt praise. It felt earned. I had run the motions for hours, over and over, and somewhere in that grind I had missed the staff meal entirely. Not because I had wandered off or slept through a bell, but because Watson had kept me at it until there was no time left. Empty stomach, full attention.
For a moment I let myself believe the noise meant something simple: I had not been a burden tonight. Then I filed the thought away before it could grow teeth. Complacency was how you reached for the wrong tray tomorrow.
Lune came back from the kitchen with a tray.
She served me the way I had served them: swift, precise, lid lifted without drama. For a beat I could not move. I had been bracing for thin broth and a corner stool; instead I got a spare plate from today's service. Salmon, roasted potatoes, a neat pile of vegetables that still looked like someone had cared.
I looked up at her, waiting for the joke. My stomach growled, loud enough to be rude.
"Enjoy. It is not often a guest cancels and we have leftovers like this. You will not be seeing a meal this fine for a very long time."
No punchline. Just the tray, the steam, her stepping back like this was normal.
I picked up my fork. The first bite hit harder than hunger alone could explain. Salt, crisp skin, butter and herbs, and I understood, suddenly, why Watson had talked about food the way some men talked about religion. Not because it was fancy for its own sake, but because someone had built that balance on purpose, for a mouth that was too tired to deserve it.
I closed my eyes and took another bite, slower.
"How was it, laddie?" Angus asked when I had cleared the plate.
"More than perfection," I said, and meant it, finally catching some of what Watson had tried to put into words only hours before.
"We aim to please." He chuckled and stood. "All right, lads, time to close up shop. I will be seeing ye for breakfast."
I sat a moment longer, full in a way that was not only food.
A soft voice came from behind me. "Tomorrow, Edgar, I will come to your room to see that you took in our lesson on the bow tie this morning."
My heart missed a beat. She had walked me through every step; I had been too aware of her hands on my wrists and her breath at my ear to file half of it away properly.
"I remember every step!" I said, with more confidence than honesty.
"We shall see about that." Lune left the galley toward her room. I sighed and stood. Tonight I doubted I would sleep. I would be in front of the mirror until the knot looked like hers, or close enough to pass.