Book 13Emma had almost forgotten the weight of a chef’s knife in her hand or the way the smell of seared fat could ground her. In this house, she was a guest, a prize, or a ghost, depending on who was looking at her, but in the kitchen, she knew exactly who she was. When she pushed through the double doors, the staff stopped dead in their tracks. The women in their crisp uniforms looked at her with wide, startled eyes, their hands hovering over prep bowls as they took in the sight of Julian’s newest obsession standing in their domain.“No, no, Madame,” Agnes said, stepping forward with her hands raised as if to ward Emma away from the heat. She was the oldest of the help, a woman whose face was lined with years of discipline and service. Her accent was thick and heavy with the rolling sounds of France, coloring her English in a way that made every word sound like a warning. “Zis is not allowed. Monsieur Voss, ‘e ordered us veree clearly. You are not to do ze chores, no? We are ‘and
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