Taking the very blunt cue, Tilda lowered her eyes and bobbed a short curtesy. Her feet made no sound as she ran from the wide library, namely because she was barefoot-shoes mad noise and noise got her caught.<br/><br/>As she swept into the kitchen, her cheeks red with exhilaration, she fetched one of the iron tea kettles and hung it on the spit in the brick hearth that took up one entire wall of the kitchen. Water sloshed over the sides of the kettle as she hung it, causing the flames to pop and hiss. But Tilda wasn't paying attention. She seldom was as she went about her duties.<br/><br/>Instead of watching how many tea leaves she threw into the warming water, her mind was abuzz with thoughts of Aguste, his bewildered treatment of her, and his hands on her shoulders. Even in their youth, he had never laid a hand on her. It simply was not allowed. Resting her small pale hand on her shoulder, she pressed her eyes closed and breathed an airy sigh.<br/><br/><br/>"You've never been the sort to daydream." The brusque voice snapped her from her thoughts and her head snapped up so that her eyes met equally with Jon Hunter's. He was one of the house servants, privy to the private chambers of the nobles and privy also to their vast myriad of secrets. The state of the clothing he wore-soft leather breeches, highly polished knee high boots, and a jacket emblazoned with the family's crest in a thick silver thread-was evidence to that fact.<br/><br/>A sly grin spread across his face, his lips mostly obscured by a dark beard, and he snatched one of the tarts that Tilda had been planning to take up to Aguste and his mother. Popping it into his mouth, he chewed slowly and thoughtfully. "I've known several women in my time, lass. And there's only one thing that can make a girl sigh like that." He waggled his eyes suggestively as he swallowed the tart.