Bertie jumped at the first few warmly spoken words and hit his head on the edge of a wooden shelf. Not hard, but enough to make him wince and then sigh and think to himself that even now he could never stop making a fool of himself around Godric. Mathilda, the Keep’s Mistress of the Kitchens, only directed an unsurprised glance at him before looking beyond him to where Godric was no doubt standing and watching Bertie rub his head. Bertie could have lifted his chin and demanded to know what was so funny that she could not meet his eye, but to do that would be to act like the sort of noble that Godric despised, and in any case, Mathilda was impervious to any attempt at intimidation unless it came from Aethir himself, who would never have dared. No one would. No one made honey cakes for the Harvest celebrations the way Mathilda did and only a fool would anger her and Aethir was not a fool. Bertie was of course, but not for angering her. He turned and straightened and lifted his chin anyway, in case Godric was laughing at him.
