"Hurry, that ornament's crooked! Someone straighten it... Hey, hey, why is this spot empty? Didn't I say to put a table here? Someone get over here!"
Fergus anxiously directed the servants in the hall, his brow furrowed. He kept checking the list in his hand to make sure every decoration was placed exactly as he wanted.
Fergus was one of the few people who knew the truth about this banquet. He knew that tonight's hastily arranged gathering was crucial. There might not be many guests, but every one of them was a person of considerable influence. The slightest mistake could have grave consequences, jeopardizing the reputation and future of the castle's owner-his master.
In an age when masters and servants were regarded as one, Fergus would never allow his master to lose face.
In the midst of this frantic bustle, the deputy steward, Edmund, approached at an unhurried pace. He stood in stark contrast to the servants rushing past him, allowing Fergus to spot his brightly dressed figure in the crowd with a turn of his head.
Fergus's bloodshot eyes suddenly narrowed. As the deputy steward's peacock-blue velvet cape swept across the freshly polished marble floor, the head steward noticed a speck of red clay on the toe of his deerskin boot... That particular soil was found only at the entrance to the cellar where the Rosin Wine was stored.
"Good day, Head Steward."
The deputy steward gave him an exaggerated curtsy, his amethyst-studded silver belt jingling softly. When he raised his hand, Fergus caught the smell of wine drifting from his cuff.
Fergus's face twitched. He knew the bastard had just sneaked into the cellar to steal a drink. It certainly hadn't been much, nor anything expensive; the fellow had done this more than once.
Had the bastard not