When had she? Before the fire? She’d had a small pastry at the ball, but that had been—how many nights ago? With so much lost time, she really had no idea.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. It wasn’t like she hadn’t gone days without food before.
“Sit.” Becky guided her to the edge of the bed, where Arista sat carefully. Things weren’t completely steady yet.
The covered silver tray had sat untouched, forgotten, but as soon as Becky lifted the cover, delicious aromas escaped from beneath. Arista’s stomach growled loudly. “Oh, miss, look at all this food!” Becky said.
A meal fit for a queen. Or at least, what Arista thought a queen might eat. The tray held delicately cut triangles of toast, a pile of fluffy eggs, pastries, biscuits, a small crystal glass with what appeared to be juice of some sort, and a pile of fruit cut to resemble flowers.
“The kitchen was starting to prepare for breakfast already. I hope this is okay?” Becky said.
“What time is it?’ Arista asked.
“Just before dawn, miss. Here—eat this first, to ease your stomach.” Becky handed her a triangle of toast, and though she knew better, Arista was far too hungry to eat slowly. It disappeared in one bite. She reached for the glass of juice and swallowed down the contents in two large gulps.
The second piece of toast tasted even better, if that was possible. It didn’t matter that both pieces were cold or that the butter sat in a greasy heap on top. The bread she knew had always been days old; stale, dry, and hard to even swallow. This melted in her mouth, and the sweet creamy taste of butter coated her tongue.
Despite the disapproval in Becky’s eye, Arista took a pastry from the tray. They were common at the higher-class masquerades, but she rarely had the stomach to eat while waiting to deal with a client. “Becky, I need to ask you something. Did you tell Wild anything about me? About us?”
Her friend’s eye grew round. “Of course not, miss. I know how important discretion is.” Becky wrung her hands tightly in her apron. “He…he did ask if I knew your real name, though.”
Arista’s hand froze, the pastry halfway to her mouth. Only Nic knew her real name, and he never, ever called her by it. She was simply “gypsy” to him, but maybe Becky had heard them talking about it at one time. Maybe she had told Wild. Arista had not missed her friend’s look of admiration when Wild left the room earlier. He had saved them, and therefore won approval.
“Becky, what did you tell him?”
Becky’s gaze dropped to her hands. The small bit of bread sat like lead in Arista’s stomach.
“I realized when he asked me that I don’t know what it is. Is that bad, miss? That I don’t know your real name? Mr. Nic calls you ‘gypsy,’ but I should remember it, right?” Becky was becoming visibly upset now. Her hands shook on her lap. “Do you suppose the fire made me forget?”
Arista hated seeing her friend distraught, but there was relief at knowing Becky did not know her real name. She reached out and took her hand. “I told Wild my name was Ana, so if he asks again, you can tell him.”
“Ana, miss?”
“Yes—Ana.” Now that Arista knew Becky had not told Wild, the panic receded and hunger replaced it with a fierce intensity. She popped the entire pastry into her mouth.
The flaky crust began to dissolve as soon as it hit her tongue. An explosion of tart lemon and sweet sugar filled her mouth. Arista closed her eyes and savored every exquisite second. When she opened them, Becky stood next to the table, her hands clasped in front of her stomach.
“Becky, eat.” Arista licked sticky sugar crystals off her fingers.
“I’ve eaten plenty, miss. Mr. Wild made sure I was taken care of. I don’t know how to ever thank him.” She saw a look of pure adoration on Becky’s face again. It was clear that the Thief Taker had made one ally, at least.
Arista decided to work with him, but she did not trust him yet. She wiped her hands on her nightgown and left the half-empty tray where it sat. “I need to clean up and meet with Wild. I have an idea, so don’t worry about anything. We will be fine. More than fine, actually.” She laughed. When had she last felt any real hope? Arista crossed to the stand and took the pitcher. If she dipped it into the bath water, she could wash enough to be presentable. When Arista stepped up to the tub, Becky gasped.
“Oh miss, a bath! I can help you. I used to help my young ladies, before…” Her voice trailed off. If Arista ever found out the name of the rich bastard who’d hurt Becky, hell would not be a safe place to hide.
“It’s okay, I’m only going to wash in the basin.” Arista tried to usher Becky back, but she would not move. When Arista looked up, determination shone from Becky’s uninjured eye. Arista knew that look. When Becky was stubborn, nothing could sway her.