Heir of Fire by Sarah J. Maas Page A

amended, “At least the company’s good.”
    She gave him her best attempt at a civilized nod and took in the layout again. Behind Luca, a second stone staircase spiraled up and out of sight, and the two towering cupboards on either side of it ­were crammed with well-­worn, if not cracked, dishes and cutlery. Th e top half of a wooden door by the windows was wide open, a wall of trees and mist swirling beyond a small clearing of grass. Past them, the ring of megaliths towered like eternal guardians.
    She caught Emrys studying her hands and held them out, scars and all. “Already mangled and ruined, so you won’t fi nd me weeping over broken nails.”
    â€œMother keep me. What happened?” But even as the old man spoke, she could see him putting the pieces together—­see him deciphering Celaena’s accent, taking in her swollen lip and the shadows under her eyes.
    â€œAdarlan will do that to a person.” Luca’s knife thudded on the table, but Celaena kept her eyes on the old man. “Give me what­ever work you want. Any work.”
    Let Rowan think she was spoiled and sel fi sh. She was, but she wanted sore muscles and blistered hands and to fall into bed so exhausted she ­wouldn’t dream, ­wouldn’t think, ­wouldn’t feel much of anything.
    Emrys clicked his tongue. Th ere was enough pity in the man’s eyes that for a heartbeat, Celaena contemplated biting his head o ff . Th en he said, “Just fi nish the onions. Luca, you mind the bread. I’ve got to start on the casseroles.”
    Celaena took up the spot that Luca had already vacated at the end of the table, passing the giant hearth as she did so—­a mammoth thing of ancient stone, carved with symbols and odd faces. Even the posts of the brazier had been fashioned into standing fi gures, and displayed atop the thin mantel was a set of nine iron fi gurines. Gods and goddesses.
    Celaena quickly looked away from the two females in the center—­one crowned with a star and armed with a bow and quiver, the other bearing a polished bronze disk upheld between her raised hands. She could have sworn she felt them watching her.
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    Breakfast was a mad­house.
    As dawn fi lled the windows with golden light, chaos descended on the kitchen, people rushing in and out. Th ere ­weren’t any servants, just weathered people doing their chores or even helping because they felt like it. Great tubs of eggs and potatoes and vegetables vanished as soon as they ­were placed on the table, whisked up the stairs and into what had to be the dining hall. Jugs of water, of milk, of the gods knew what ­were hauled up. Celaena was introduced to some of the people, but most didn’t cast a look in her direction.
    And ­wasn’t that a lovely change from the usual stares and terror and whispers that had marked the past ten years of her life. She had a feeling Rowan would keep his mouth shut about her identity, if only because he seemed to hate talking to others as much as she did. In the kitchen, chopping vegetables and washing pans, she was absolutely, gloriously nobody.
    Her dull knife was a nightmare when it came to chopping mushrooms, scallions, and an endless avalanche of potatoes. No one, except perhaps Emrys with his all-­seeing eyes, seemed to notice her perfect slices. Someone merely scooped them up and tossed them in a pot, then told her to cut something ­else.
    Th en—nothing. Everyone but her two companions vanished upstairs, and sleepy laughter, grumbling, and clinking silverware echoed down the stairwell. Famished, Celaena looked longingly at the food le ft on the worktable just as she caught Luca staring at her.
    â€œGo ahead,” he said with a grin before moving to help Emrys haul a massive iron cauldron over toward the sink. Even with the insanity of the past hour, Luca had managed to chat up almost every person who came into the kitchen,