If Page's mud-splattered boots were a spectacle, she would have questioned her definition of the word. But they were the only things she found interesting, despite the real spectacle happening beyond them. Moving about in frantic paces before skidding to a halt before her, another tapered tip of a boot edged through her periphery.

"How many months has it been?" the quartermaster asked, his tone rising into an annoyed pitch. Page winced, but with her head ducked so low, she prayed he didn't see it. "Who among you still can't learn to sprinkle godsdamned salt into the young master's breakfast?"

Page kept her head down. She couldn't afford to have attention showered all over her again. It was the third time this week. A little more, and she might have to kiss this job farewell. She couldn't afford that. With the rent hiking up next month, she'd had enough reason to work harder to keep her place. Kitchen maids were easy to replace, after all.

If she was to guess and guess correctly, the quartermaster's face would be beet red now, lecturing the entire kitchen staff on why the Duke of Marren's youngest son wasn't happy with the food. Well, for one, the brat was as picky as a blasted doe. Secondly...

The quartermaster stopped in front of the array of stovetops. All of the pots used in preparing breakfast remained in their places. Some still boiled, with them made to serve the highest servants in the estate. Higher in rank, maybe, but still lowly slaves. Page raised her head to find the quartermaster picking her station. A wince crept into her face when he stabbed a ladle into the pale yellow goop inside and had a taste.

"You..." The edge sharpening his voice never flew by Page's head as he turned to her, pinpointing her among the crowd of similarly-dressed women. Busted. "Haven't I warned you?"

He had. During the first few months, Page studied under the experienced cooks and kitchen staff. The quartermaster stressed the importance of keeping the duchy members happy with every bit of his strained elegance. "Food is the most important aspect of human happiness," was what the quartermaster said to a crowd of newbies Page was lumped with that day. "Forget that, and you can start packing."

She had an ass-worth of care towards the nobility's happiness, but if they were to shed a scant amount of their generational wealth to a crawling vermin like her, they would have to be stingy hags about it. But she tried her best. She really did. Under the scrutinizing eye of her supervisor, she coughed out barely acceptable viands. Feeling proud of herself with that, she moved on to the next phase of the job, which was unsupervised. As soon as she was thrown off the nest, as soon as she felt as if she wasn't being monitored, her disasters started.

Suddenly, the nobles would start clambering to the kitchen themselves, demanding why the breakfast was served cold, or it had too little seasoning or helping of spices, or the bread was as hard and tasteless as a rock, or why the clear soup turned into a gooey gruel. The quartermaster heard all sorts of complaints, and all of them had been directed to none other than Page.

Traitorous little cunts, the other maids, but Page couldn't blame them. She couldn't cook, even if her life depended on it. Getting a job in the Duke of Marren's kitchen was every bit of a surprise for her as it was for them. And since then, she had gotten multiple strikes, and they didn't let off until now. It was a miracle she was still here despite the odds.

Well, not for long.

"Enough chances have been given," the quartermaster huffed, raising a hand and pointing a finger towards the kitchen's backdoor. "Out."

Just like that, Page was by the pavement of the Marren Manor, craning her neck at the black-railed gates shutting in her face. Her belongings, all fitted inside one aged trunk, sat by her feet. Back in her rugged garb—a stitched overcoat hiding the presence of a frayed dress—she turned towards the road and started the usual trek back to her house.

The way was longer than usual. Unlike the days she walked home tired to the bone, she couldn't even say she exerted a drop of energy today. Her boots slapped against the cobblestones, ears listening passively at the honks of automobiles hurrying from the capital, locals trading and purchasing goods back and forth, and the bustling establishments flanking active streets. After an uncountable amount of time, she made it to the last stretch of civilization before the endless mud-laden grass fields and plains ate it all off.

A merchant cart caught her attention, halting her scurry. What was a merchant doing here of all places? Those who could afford peddled wares were in alleys several ages ago. Page shook her head. It was a sucky day; getting laid off was hardly a cause of amusement. Why not check the cart, right? Perhaps, she could find something that'd cheer her up even if through a quick look.

She stalked towards the cart, eyeing the merchant dressed in a richly-stained coat and the spread of knickknacks scattered all over the cart wall cranked down like a table. A glimmering, golden sheen reflected back to her. Filigrees, handles, surfaces—name it; all of them were cast with gold and screamed expensiveness.

"Can I interest you in some wares, m'lady?" The merchant said beside her. She turned to him, noting his nondescript features and a smile plastered on his lips. She still has to decide if it was a friendly or a menacing one. "Some sparkers to warm your nights? Or these glass lanterns imported from foreign lands?"

Probably flimsy copies. Even then, she couldn't afford those. Her nostril's flared. "If you have a magic grimoire that can restore my job, I'll take that," she said, irony coating her words without her explicit permission.

It zipped past the merchant's attention, and he perked up, fueled by her interest even though it was as fake as it got. "I've got such a thing." Before she could stop him, he rounded the cart and fetched a rectangular object. He waved it in front of Page's face. "True to the legends from where I got this, no one can open it to see what it contains. Who knew? You might be in for a sweet treat. Better yet, you can get your job back!"

"How about I try first?" Page said. "See if I can open it?"

The grimoire flew away. "Ah, ah," the merchant tutted, waving a finger inches from her nose. "Fee before touch."

Buying a defunct grimoire with less than zero percent chance of working out for her was a stupid way to lose her hard-earned rocks. But what option did she have? If she was to put her faith in the unknown, she might as well put in on magic. And that golden tome, it looked like it belong to the mages of old. Or maybe Page was just delusional, and she hasn't realized it yet.

"Fine," she resigned, shoving her hands into the pockets of her dress for her purse. The coins clinked with warning against the merchant's hand. He shoved the tome to her chest, sending her a few steps backward just to regain her bearings. Ugh. Rude. With a sigh and feeling worse than being kicked out of a salaried job, she hauled her poorer self home.

Her house, the poor, rickety excuse for it, greeted her when she unlocked the door with her rusty key. She collapsed on the creaky chair by the dining table, craning her head to the ceiling. The dark splotches of rainwater drips from the night before still showed. The rot would demolish the wood sooner or later and bury her alive with wood. Well...it was welcome to.

She was about to sigh and throw her arm over her eyes when she was reminded of a tome still in her hands. A sigh did rip out of her nose, but she held the grimoire over her face. Apart from the ornate designs carved in the leather cover which were dusted lightly with gold, nothing screamed novelty. She just got scammed for a useless book.

To drive the point home, she opened the book straight in the middle. The pages swung against the spine with ease. Huh. Did that mean something?

Contrary to her belief, the pages weren't empty. Instead, they contained inked words jotted in a familiar layout, one she had seen countless times in the kitchen. A shocked gasp flitted off her lips as she sat straighter and leaned forward. These weren't spells or magic.

They were recipes.