Chapter 4 The Third Plate

Morning brought no sunlight, only a thin veil of mist creeping in from the marshland, clinging to the kitchen windowpanes like a cold breath. The dim light filtered through the cracks of the curtains, casting a soft gleam across the row of copper pots hanging neatly against the stone wall.

The rich scent of melted butter and cinnamon had already claimed the room by the time I stepped inside.

A middle-aged woman stood before the antique stove, her back turned to me. Her dress was immaculate, her hair pinned up in a neat bun, and her movements as she flipped batter over a cast-iron skillet were remarkably practiced and efficient. Had her chest risen and fallen with breath, or had her skirt rustled with the sound of fabric as she moved, I would have mistaken her for an ordinary hired cook.

Upon the heavy wooden table, two place settings of white porcelain with gold trim were already neatly laid out—complete with spoons, forks, and tea cups wreathed in rising wisps of steam.

"I only need toast," I said, pulling out a chair.

Mrs. Bea Holloway turned, fixing me with the sharp gaze of a housekeeper who tolerated no backtalk. "Toast is for the sick and the idle. You need your strength. The gentleman upstairs needs his, too. Tall men always eat a great deal—Honoria used to say so all the time."

"He isn't an ordinary guest, Bea," I said, rubbing my temples as I tried to process the situation with whatever remaining logic I possessed. "Last night, he greeted Ambrose. He saw him. Physically and academically speaking, it makes no sense." Though if I were being entirely honest, this flawlessly delicious breakfast wasn't exactly logical either. How could that frying batter smell so genuinely savory if the person cooking it had no need to breathe?

"Ambrose deserves to be greeted," Bea replied smoothly, arranging warm scones into a napkin-lined basket. "Do make sure not to scratch the porcelain, Mara. That was your grandmother's favorite set."

I fell silent, trying to digest the presence of a man who appeared and disappeared as he pleased, without a word, without a footstep. I took a deep breath to steady the quiet chaos in my head.

A quiet set of footsteps descending the wooden staircase saved me from an argument I had no hope of winning.

Caspian Thorne appeared at the kitchen doorway. This morning he wore a dark gray shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, making him look slightly more grounded than he had last night—though his pale green-gray eyes still held an uncanny stillness. He brought a chill with him from the outside, or perhaps that was simply the aura that constantly followed him.

He gave me a brief nod. "Miss Bellrose."

"Mara," I corrected automatically. "Have a seat before Bea stacks this breakfast up to the ceiling."

Caspian pulled out the chair opposite mine with fluid, soundless grace. He glanced at the two prepared plates, then offered a slight, respectful bow toward Bea.

"Thank you for breakfast, Mrs. Holloway," Caspian said, his tone unfailingly polite.

Bea offered a satisfied smile, smoothing her spotless apron. "See?" she remarked to me. "Proper manners. Not like young people these days."

I ignored her and scooped up a spoonful of scrambled eggs. "So, Mr. Thorne. How long do you plan on piling mysteries onto my inn?"

"Only a few nights," Caspian replied calmly as he poured his tea. "I have a few matters to settle in the area. After that, I’ll be on my way."

"What kind of matters?"

"Personal ones."

"Personal matters that involve greeting members of my household staff who aren't listed on any payroll?"

Caspian looked directly at me over the rim of his cup, a brief pause stretching between us as he studied me with a flicker of faint curiosity.

"I go to places where old stories linger," he said softly. "This house holds many stories. And I only need a few nights to ensure those stories remain where they belong."

"That is the vaguest answer I've ever heard."

"Yet it is an honest one," he countered. "I won't disrupt the running of your inn. Three nights. Then I leave."

"I can't just let-"

My sentence cut off at the sound of another set of footsteps-stiff and measured—approaching from the lobby corridor.

Ambrose Whitlock entered the kitchen. His three-piece suit was impeccably pressed, and the pocket watch chain gleamed beneath the morning light. Tucked neatly under his arm was a morning newspaper from a year I had no desire to ask about.

"Good morning, Miss Bellrose. Mr. Thorne," Ambrose announced, his tone as cold as ice in a glass. He paused at the end of the table, fixing Caspian with a sharp, appraising stare. "I trust your sleep was undisturbed by the marsh winds, sir."

"Soundly, Ambrose. Thank you," Caspian replied easily, as though greeting an invisible butler at the breakfast table were part of his daily routine.

Ambrose offered a satisfied nod. "Excellent. For the reputation of this establishment rests upon the comfort of its guests, regardless of the fact that its current proprietor has yet to master the basics of proper hospitality." He shot me a brief glance.

"I am standing right here, Ambrose," I said flatly.

"I am aware, Miss," he replied without a trace of remorse.

Before I could retaliate, Bea stepped toward the table. With the deft, graceful motions of a seasoned professional, she placed a third porcelain plate squarely between Caspian and me, followed by a knife, fork, empty cup, and a neatly folded linen napkin.

I stared at the extra place setting, then looked up at Bea. "Bea? It's just the two of us here."

Bea patted her hands together, her face a picture of unbothered dutifulness.

"Just like last night before Mr. Thorne arrived in the middle of the storm, this inn always knows who is on their way," Bea said warmly. "You'd better spoon out an extra portion of eggs, Mara. Our next guest will certainly be hungry after such a long journey."

"Next guest?" I repeated. "This inn is closed to the public!"

PING!

A sharp chime echoed from the computer monitor on the reception desk in the lobby, cutting off my words.

I stood up immediately, followed by Caspian's calm stride and Ambrose walking stiffly behind us. At the front desk, the computer screen—whose cord wasn't even plugged into the wall socket—had suddenly flared to life.

The cursor on the screen moved swiftly of its own accord.

Click.

The reservation system opened. Without a single finger touching the keyboard, letter by letter filled the arrival form fields:

Guest Name: Evelyn Vance

Arrival Time: Today — 9:00 AM

Status: Auto-Confirmed

"You see?" Ambrose stood beside me, adjusting the fit of his white gloves. "The systems of this house have always operated far more efficiently than human management. Mrs. Holloway’s third plate was impeccably timed."

I stared at the screen that had just processed the booking, a faint ache beginning to pulse in my temples. This computer had no internet connection, yet it had just accepted a new guest entirely on its own.

Caspian tilted his head, studying the name on the screen before turning back to me, the faint ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"It seems," Caspian said in a low voice, "your dedicated cook and your house have just informed us that

we'll be having an impatient guest for breakfast."