“That sounds like witchcraft.”
“Experience.”
Matilda looked toward the shelves.
“If fifty people stay, we need rationing by tomorrow.”
“Start now.”
“Abigail won't.”
“Why?”
“Guests pay.”
“Dead guests don't.”
She gave him a dry look.
“Please tell her that.”
“I will.”
“No.”
Matilda turned.
“Don't.”
He frowned.
“Why?”
“Because every time you speak to her, she punishes me after.”
Something dangerous entered his expression.
“She what?”
Matilda regretted saying it.
“Nothing.”
“That's not nothing.”
“She cuts wages.”
“For what?”
“Waste.”
“Bad reviews.”
“Breaking dishes.”
“People complaining.”
“People complain about you?”
“Sometimes.”
“About the food?”
Matilda almost smiled.
“No.”
He understood.
His jaw tightened.
She lifted one hand.
“Do not rescue me.”
He looked surprised.
“I didn't say—”
“You have that face.”
“What face?”
“The one men get when they decide anger qualifies them to rearrange somebody else's life.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then:
“Your mother talked like that.”
Matilda's heart stumbled.
“You barely knew her.”
“I knew her enough.”
She looked away.
“You keep saying things about her like you have a right.”
He accepted the blow.