[piosenniel]

Cook and Camille

Cook was sitting at her little desk in the kitchen, a stack of papers to her left and her bottle of ink to the right. She was writing names of items and sums of money into the kitchen’s account ledger when Camille burst through the door with her little rant. Vinca sat back in her chair and fixed the girl with a non-committal stare.

‘Not thinking straight, Camille,’ she commented once the girl had run out of steam. Cook laid the quill to one side and seeing the ink was dry on the page she’d been working on, closed the ledger. It had been a long tiring day and she was in no mood to deal with one more outburst from anyone. But Camille was new, she cautioned herself, and a good worker. She looked her up and down wondering what had brought on such strong feelings. In a matter of fact voice she addressed the lass’ points.

‘The Inn is a perfect place to have the school. First, we’ve the room for it and second folks are familiar with us and will be more likely to send their children here to be taught than to some strange, new place set up by someone they don’t know.

‘And as for Miz Bella, she’s a treasure-mine of learning from books and her travels. We haven’t had a real teacher about for a good long time, Too many young folk have not had the benefit of broadening their minds a bit. She’s a kind, lovely lady; it was more than generous of her to offer her services.

‘Now as for you, no one’s asking you to account for my tastes or any others. And there’s none can teach you if you’ve set your mind against it. But I can tell you that if you expect to take on any more responsibilities than moving crates and barrels and scraping dishes and washing them around here – And I hope you would think beyond that, because you seem bright and able enough – then you’ll need to know at least some basic reading and numbers and some arithmetic.’

Cook patted the ledger and pointed to the stack of papers. ‘We’ve got tradesmen and people from round about that bring us the things we need or do for us what we can’t do ourselves. If I send you to the miller I’ll be expecting you to read the paper he gives you that says what he’s done for us so you’ll know it was what I sent you after. You’ll need to bring it back and put it in the right little cubbyhole here in my desk – see they’re all labeled – so I can pay him the end of each month. Anyways, that’s just one thing to think about for yourself.’

She turned back to the desk, picked up her quill and dipped it into the inkwell. ‘Got a letter here I’ve got to answer . . . from a dear friend down south, where the King lives.’ Cook opened the vellum and smoothed it out on the desk. Whoever had written the letter had a bold hand and here and there among the words were little drawings – childrens’ faces and a house and a ship docked at the quay. ‘Can’t be there to watch her raise her little chicks but this is the next best thing.’ Cook pulled out the return letter she was working on and printed out Camille’s name. ‘And look here . . . I’ve put you in as one of the new faces working here . . . she always likes to know who’s helping to run The Dragon.’

‘Well . . . see you tomorrow, then, Camille,’ Cook said, reading through again the last part of the letter she’d received, chuckling to herself at some joke the writer had made. ‘And I know you’ll do the best you can, dear . . . you don’t seem the kind to do any less.’