Hollis remembered when the ovens never went cold.
Not even in winter. Especially not in winter.
Back then, the heat had been constant—an unbroken presence that soaked into stone and bone alike. Even before dawn, when the rest of the mansion still slept, the kitchen breathed warmth. Hearths glowed low and steady, embers banked by hands that knew exactly how long a fire could be trusted before it demanded attention again.
Bread did not arrive in batches then.
It came in waves.
Hollis could still picture it if he closed his eyes: racks filled edge to edge, loaves cooling shoulder to shoulder like soldiers returned from the same long march. Rolls brushed with butter for servants who worked through the night. Dense country bread stacked for the town deliveries. Ceremonial loaves stamped with the wheat-and-sun sigil of House Oaten, their crusts scored just so, their weight reassuring in the hands.
The kitchen had been loud then.
Not chaos… never chaos… but life.The voices of workers overlapping. Apprentices arguing about fermentation times. Someone laughing too loudly after nearly dropping a tray. The sharp crack of wood splitting, the hiss of steam when water hit hot stone. Music, sometimes, when Lady Oaten visited and insisted on humming while she worked.
Hollis had complained about the noise.
Now he missed it.
He slid a loaf from the oven and set it on the cooling rack. The bread gave a soft, familiar crackle as it settled, the sound quiet enough now that it echoed in the room.
He listened to it the way one listened to an old friend breathe.
The loaf was smaller than it used to be.
Hell… Everything was.
Hollis wiped his hands on his apron, movements economical, practiced. There was no excess anymore, not in motion, not in thought. He had learned to shave minutes off preparation without sacrificing consistency, learned how thin a crust could be before it stopped being satisfying, how far flour could be stretched before it betrayed you.
Once, those calculations had been a point of pride. Now they were a means of survival.
The kitchen itself bore the marks of that change. A worktable was removed entirely to make space. Hooks… were now left empty where tools had once hung in tidy rows. A rack had been repaired with mismatched wood after the original beam had cracked and no one could justify replacing it properly.
The old festival racks still lined the far wall.
Unused.
Dust had gathered in their corners no matter how often Hollis wiped them down. Habit, more than hope, kept him doing it.
He picked up the knife and began slicing.
Thin. Even. Predictable.
Every loaf was counted now before it was cut. Every slice was measured against quiet arithmetic that lived in the back of his mind. Enough for the household. Enough left over in case the lord entertained guests—which almost never happened anymore. Enough so that no one noticed if a portion was missing.
Hollis noticed, of course.
He noticed everything.
He noticed the way servants lingered less in the kitchen now, slipping in and out with bowls held carefully, eyes downcast. He noticed how fewer voices filled the space, how often he worked alone where once he'd had three sets of hands beside him.
He noticed the boy in the doorway.
Theo stood there more often than not these days.
Hollis pretended not to see him at first, letting the child think himself unnoticed. It was a courtesy. Some things were easier observed when no one called attention to them.
Theo was taller than he'd been the year before. Thinner, too. Not unhealthy—just stretched by growth and circumstance. His clothes were clean but worn, cuffs mended carefully. His eyes followed Hollis's hands as if memorizing each motion.
Those eyes.
Hollis had known them instantly, the first time the boy toddled into the kitchen years ago, clutching nothing but air and curiosity.
Lady Oaten's eyes.
Not the shape—those were Gerard's—but the attention. The way they didn't just look, but studied. As if the world were a problem that could be solved if one simply paid close enough attention.
Lady Oaten had done that with everything.
She had loved this kitchen fiercely.
"Food should remind people they're alive," she'd said once, leaning against the counter with flour smudged on her sleeve, utterly unconcerned with appearances. "Not just keep them that way."
She had been terrible at kneading.
Too gentle. Too hesitant. As if she were afraid the dough might bruise.
Hollis had corrected her again and again, guiding her hands, pressing harder, insisting she feel the resistance. She had laughed every time, unbothered by failure, unashamed of learning.
"That's why you're the cook and I'm not," she'd said cheerfully. "I make messes. You make miracles."
He'd pretended to be offended.
The memory tightened his chest now, sharp and unwelcome.
Hollis focused on the bread.
Theo shifted in the doorway.
The boy didn't enter unless invited. That had always been his way. He hovered instead, close enough to see, far enough not to intrude. Hollis suspected Theo learned more from those moments than most apprentices did from formal instruction.
He remembered the first time Theo had reached for the dough.
It had been instinctive. Unthinking.
The child's hand had moved before his mind could catch up, fingers stretching toward the warm, living mass on the table. Hollis had reacted without hesitation, closing his hand gently—but firmly—around Theo's wrist.
"No," he'd said.
Not unkindly.
Theo had frozen, eyes wide, then nodded and pulled back at once. No argument. No tears. Just acceptance.
That had worried Hollis more than defiance would have.
"You're too young," he'd added. "And the house can't afford mistakes."
The words had tasted bitter even as he spoke them.
Theo hadn't asked again.
Instead, the boy had found other ways to belong. Carrying wood. Cleaning counters. Counting loaves before they were sliced. Learning how thin bread could be cut before people noticed.
Too young for fire.
Old enough for hunger.
Hollis set the slices aside and glanced again toward the doorway.
Theo was gone.
Probably off-counting something. Measuring. Listening. Learning the long way.
Hollis exhaled and leaned against the counter, his gaze drifting back through time.
There had been festivals once. Real ones, huge and majestic, mages and performers from all over would come.
The kind that spilled out of the mansion and into the town, tables stretching down the hill, children running with crumbs on their faces. Bread wasn't counted then. It was shared. Passed hand to hand until plates were full and laughter louder than music.
The ovens had never slept in those days.
They had roared.
Hollis had worked until his arms ached and his apron was stiff with flour and sweat, and he'd loved every minute of it. The work had mattered. It had meant something.
Now the ovens slept more often than not.
He banked the fires carefully each night, coaxing them into rest instead of letting them burn down naturally. Firewood was expensive. Time even more so.
He had overheard the conversation earlier, voices muffled through stone and habit.
About education.
About waiting.
It was the right decision.
Hollis knew that, even if it twisted something uncomfortable in his chest.
You didn't hand fire to someone without teaching them what it cost…. Still….
He wondered what Lady Oaten would have said.
Probably something infuriatingly optimistic and having to do something about trust.
Hollis picked up the next loaf and sliced it with care. Always carefully as to not lose a crumb.
The kitchen breathed around him—quiet, warm, restrained. He wondered if it remembered what it had been like, and he wondered if the boy did too, in whatever half-formed way memories settled in children.
One day, perhaps, the ovens would wake again.
If patience held. If the house endured. If Theo's hands grew strong enough to carry what had been lost, and wise enough not to waste it. Then maybe they could come back from this, and bring glory back to House Oaten.
Hollis set the bread aside and reached for the cloth.
There was work to do… there was always work to do.