It contained a large bare table and several stools, besides many shelves holding enormous platters and dishes. No other inhabitants of the house were to be seen, and yet there was an atmosphere of hurry and trouble; somewhere in the distance they could hear hasty footsteps; and the clamour of raised voices, and the clatter of pots or pails suggested that some domestic crisis was taking place. Dido shivered. Despite a wan fire alight in the huge old cooking stove, the kitchen seemed not much warmer than the yard and orchards outside. Yorka’s dead right about this place, she thought; there’s summat about it that gives you the chill heeby-jeebies. Lord Herodsfoot glanced around him with interest and remarked in a low voice: “This must be one of the oldest Angrian mansions in the island, several hundred years old, I’d guess.” “Feels like it’s never been properly warmed since it was built,” Dido whispered back. The grey-haired woman who had led them in now made off through a doorway with some muttered explanation: “Later, food will be brought.
