Each night before dawn the kitchen of Castle Serendipity seemed to die a painful death. There were usually those of varying stations who drifted in and out throughout the night: guards about to go on night duty, servants whose masters were so stern that they had not chanced to eat very well throughout the day, young noblemen who found that the strict code of etiquette surrounding the evening meal didn't fully sate their appetite. For the few hours before day broke in earnest, however, there was nothing but silence in the great beamed room.
Nettle alone was there, the cooks and undercooks and sculleries having gone down to bed long ago, and the little blonde unable to bring herself to follow. She was too tired to make the walk to the stables alone and too agitated from a night of working in a hot kitchen and then restoring it to its pristine state of unuse to contemplate sleep. The tables had been scrubbed, the mugs washed and hung up, the hearths and mantles dusted and the floor mopped. It was certain to satisfy the head cook in the morning, and more importantly, Nettle could safely sit anywhere she wanted without risking her dress getting sticky.
She chose a tabletop, one of many scarred, kicked and burned by knife and kettle as kitchen tables often are. Sitting thereupon, the girl let down the thick waves of hair that had been pinned up in a messy bird's nest for the duration of the day, shaking down the resultant ringlets and curls and sighing with relief. Next she removed the grease-stained pinafore that belied her having worked with splattering fats and meats; this she carefully folded and hung on the back of a nearby chair. With no further tasks to complete, she simply laid back on the table, spread her arms wide and shut her eyes.
Maybe she could catch a quick catnap.
