The kitchen appeared as it always did, a hive of activity. The rest of the hotel might be waiting for use to return, but the heart beat was strong as ever. If walls could hold memories, floors absorb the tread of familiar step from baby to adult to aged, then this kitchen was a storybook, an encyclopaedia dedicated to the Ponsonby family. At this table, babies had been fed and sung to, children instructed on the business of family affairs, adults joked and cried and shared news. At this stove, countless meals had been cooked, kettles boiled, soups stirred.
And now, with the culmination of every story ever told within these walls about to be reached, Anastasia worked the magic she had been born to. Every hob on the stove was lit with a pot bubbling away above it. Anastasia wove a wooden sp
