The kitchen of The Hearth was a war zone, but unlike the Spire, this was a war zone I absolutely thrived in.
It was 4:00 PM on Friday. The grand opening was exactly two hours away. The air in the commercial kitchen was thick with the intoxicating smells of roasting meat, simmering garlic, and yeast. The heat from the massive ovens was intense, making the stray hairs that had escaped my messy bun stick to my forehead.
"Martha! How are the venison roasts?" I called out, wiping flour off my cheek with the back of my hand.
"Internal temperature is perfect, Luna!" Martha, the older, fiercely loyal head cook of the estate, yelled back from the carving station. "Resting for twenty minutes before we slice!"
"Excellent," I nodded, turning to my left. "Jenkins! Watch the risotto! It need
