Chapter 3: The Lemon Pound Cake Test

On the third day after arriving at Mrs. Reynolds’ wing, I still hadn’t seen her.

That day, while sweeping the hallway, a maid bumped into me. The dustpan clattered to the floor, and lemon-scented polish splashed my shoes. She fell to the ground as well, her expression dazed.

I kindly reached out to help her up, but she pushed me away and ran off. The hall echoed with the slap of her sneakers against the tile. For a second, I just stood there, my hand still outstretched, feeling oddly exposed.

Seeing my frown, a maid nearby comforted me: "Don’t take it to heart. She might… be about to get fired."

I was startled. "What do you mean?"

"She’s the cook in the small kitchen. Mrs. Reynolds recently wanted to eat lemon pound cake. She’s made it more than ten times, but Mrs. Reynolds is never satisfied—she’s only gotten angrier. She said this was the cook’s last chance. If she can’t make a cake that pleases Mrs. Reynolds tomorrow morning…"

She lowered her voice, whispering two words in my ear.

"She’s out."

I gripped the broom tighter. I could feel the grain of the wood digging into my palm.

I turned to look in the direction the cook had gone, hesitated a moment, then put down the broom and followed her. My footsteps were quiet, heart pounding in my ears.

……

In the small kitchen, the cook was washing fresh lemons.

But her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. She fumbled a lemon, and it thumped under the counter, rolling out of sight.

Tears fell one by one into the sink, blurring her vision.

At last, she couldn’t help squatting down and sobbing aloud. Her cries were muffled by her apron, echoing in the tiled room.

If she couldn’t make a lemon pound cake Mrs. Reynolds liked, she would be fired—maybe worse…

She didn’t want to lose her job.

The more she thought about it, the more terrified she became. She even started considering whether to try running away in the night.

But the estate was full of cameras and security—there was no way out. The staff knew better than to test the fences, with guards posted all hours and sensor lights flickering on at the slightest movement.

What should she do? What should she do?

Just as she was on the verge of collapse, someone knocked lightly at the kitchen door. The sound was gentle, almost tentative, and she froze, afraid of being caught crying.

The cook turned to look.

It was a young, unfamiliar maid.

I walked in and crouched down in front of her.

"Do you want my help? I also know how to make lemon pound cake."