Heir of Fire by Sarah J. Maas

copper sinks. Th ere ­were only two other people in the kitchen—­a hunched old man tending to the bubbling pots on the hearth and a youth at the wooden table that split the kitchen in half, chopping onions and monitoring what smelled like bread. By the Wyrd, she was hungry. Th at bread smelled divine. And what was in those pots?
    Despite the absurdly early hour, the young man’s merry prattling had echoed o ff the stones of the stairwell, but he’d fallen silent, both men stopping their work, when Rowan strode down the steps into the kitchen. Th e Fae prince had been waiting for her down the hall, arms crossed, already bored. But his animal-­bright eyes had narrowed slightly, as if he’d been half ­hoping she would oversleep ­and give him an excuse to punish her. As an immortal, he probably had endless patience and creativity when it came to thinking up miserable punishments.
    Rowan addressed the old man by the hearth—­standing so still that Celaena wondered if the prince had learned it or been born with it. “Your new scullery maid for the morning shi ft . A ft er breakfast, I have her for the rest of the day.” Apparently, his lack of greeting ­wasn’t personal. Rowan looked at her with raised brows, and she could see the words in his eyes as clearly as if he’d spoken them: You wanted to remain unidenti fi ed, so go ahead, Princess. Introduce yourself with what­ever name you want.
    At least he’d listened to her last night. “Elentiya,” she choked out. “My name is Elentiya.” Her gut tightened.
    Th ank the gods Rowan didn’t snort at the name. She might have eviscerated him—­or tried to, at least—­if he mocked the name Nehemia had given her.
    Th e old man hobbled forward, wiping his gnarled hands on a crisp white apron. His brown woolen clothes ­were simple and worn—­a bit threadbare in places—­and he seemed to have some trouble with his le ft knee, but his white hair was tied back neatly from his tan face. He bowed sti ffl y. “So good of you to fi nd us additional help, Prince.” He shi ft ed his chestnut-brown eyes to Celaena and gave her a no-­nonsense once-­over. “Ever work in a kitchen?”
    With all the things she had done, all the places and things and people she had seen, she had to say no.
    â€œWell, I hope you’re a fast learner and quick on your feet,” he said.
    â€œI’ll do my best.” Apparently that was all Rowan needed to hear before he stalked o ff , his footsteps silent, every movement smooth and laced with power. Just watching him, she knew he’d held back last night when punching her. If he’d wanted to, he could have shattered her jaw.
    â€œI’m Emrys,” the old man said. He hurried to the oven, grabbing a long, fl at wooden shovel from the wall to pull a brown loaf out of the oven. Introduction over. Good. No wishy-­washy nonsense or smiling or any of that. But his ears—
    Half-­breeds . Peeking up from Emrys’s white hair ­were the markers of his Fae heritage.
    â€œAnd this is Luca,” the old man said, pointing to the youth at the worktable. Even though a rack of iron pots and pans hanging from the ceiling partially blocked her view of him, he gave Celaena a broad smile, his mop of tawny curls sticking up this way and that. He had to be a few years younger than her at least, and hadn’t yet grown into his tall frame or broad shoulders. He didn’t have properly fi tting clothes, either, given how short the sleeves of his ordinary brown tunic ­were. “You and he will be sharing a lot of the scullery work, I’m afraid.”
    â€œOh, it’s absolutely miserable,” Luca chirped, sni ffl ing loudly at the reek of the onions he was chopping, “but you’ll get used to it. Th ough maybe not the waking up before dawn part.” Emrys shot the young man a glare, and Luca