Justice of the Supreme War God

Chapter 30: The Recipe PART 2

Claire went into the hallway and stood there for a moment with the linens in her arms and an expression that moved through several stages before settling into one she could use in public.

She found Marcus in the garden after lunch.

He was at the south wall again — the herb section, which he appeared to have a specific relationship with that Claire had stopped trying to fully understand. He was crouching beside the rosemary with the patient, examining attention of someone conducting an inventory, and he looked up when she approached with the same unhurried composure he brought to every interaction.

"I need the recipe," Claire said.

She had decided on directness. She was the head maid. She ran this household. She had been running it for three years before Marcus Hayes arrived in his worn suit and inserted himself into its rhythms, and there was no reason — professional, practical, or otherwise — why the formulation for a skincare paste should be withheld from the person responsible for producing it.

Marcus looked at her. "Which recipe?"

"Don't," Claire said. "You know which one. The paste." She crossed her arms. "I need the full formulation. The ingredients, the ratios, the preparation method. Everything." She kept her voice even. "Ms. Morrison has increased my salary specifically because of it. She's made it part of her regular routine. That means I need to be able to produce it reliably, without coming to you every time the jar runs low."

Marcus looked at her for a moment.

"No," he said.

Claire stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"No," Marcus said again, with the same simple finality he applied to everything he meant. He turned back to the rosemary. "When you need more, come to me. I'll make it."

"That's completely —" Claire stopped. Reorganized. Tried again with the patient, managing tone she used for difficult household situations. "Mr. Hayes. I understand you have your methods. But the practical reality is that I am responsible for Ms. Morrison's daily routine, and if the paste becomes a regular component of that routine — which it has — then I need to be able to produce it independently. You can see that, surely."

"I can make a fresh batch whenever it runs low," Marcus said. "That's not a problem."

"It is a problem," Claire said, and the managed tone developed a slight edge. "Because you are a temporary arrangement in this household and I am not, and when your year is up and you're gone, there will be nobody here who knows how to —"

"When that time comes," Marcus said, still not looking up from the rosemary, "I'll make sure she has what she needs."

Claire's jaw tightened. "You're being deliberately obstructive."

"I'm being deliberate," Marcus agreed pleasantly. "Not obstructive."

"Those are the same thing in this context."

"They really aren't." He stood, brushing his hands together, and looked at her with the direct, calm attention that she had never once been able to turn into something she could argue with. "Claire. As long as you need it for Diana, I'll provide it. That's the commitment." He looked at her for a moment longer. "I'm not keeping the recipe from you to be difficult. I'm keeping it because I'm the one who should be making it."

Claire looked at him.

She had been in this household for three years. She had managed its staff, its systems, its rhythms, and its complicated family dynamics with the professional competence of someone who believed that a well-run household was a form of dignity. She understood people well enough to know when she was being handled, and Marcus Hayes — in his garden, with his rosemary and his calm, infuriating reasonableness — was handling her.

The salary increase sat in her chest alongside the refusal, and the combination produced a friction that she didn't have an immediate outlet for.

"Fine," she said.

Marcus nodded once and went back to the herb section.

Claire walked back toward the house with the even, deliberate steps of a woman who has accepted a situation she has not accepted.

The recipe was somewhere in the villa. In the kitchen, most likely — in whatever cabinet Marcus had designated for his various garden components and inexplicable formulations. He prepared everything himself, which meant the ingredients were physically present somewhere in the building.

She had been running this household for three years.

She knew where everything was.