The northern wing's study smelled of ink and dried rosemary. Steward Rook sat at a long table scattered with ledgers, his spectacles perched halfway down his nose.
“You're late," he said without looking up.
Ella shut the door behind her. “You didn't give me a time."
“Then you're very late," he replied, flipping a page.
She stepped closer, scanning the columns of numbers. “This is the store inventory?"
“This," he said, tapping the page, “is the steward's nightmare. Mismatched tallies, misplaced goods, requisitions approved without signatures." He glanced at her. “Fix it."
Ella raised a brow. “Fix *all* of it?"
“Yes."
“In how long?"
“Before the bread spoils."
---
She pulled the ledger toward her, ignoring his smirk. “First problem—your patrol roster overlaps with kitchen deliverie
