The kitchen table in Sister Merrow’s washroom workshop had been scrubbed clean with coarse river sand and lye. But the grain of the split oak still bore the dark ring-stains of fifty years of iron stew kettles.
Pella sat on a low three-legged stool, the museum’s pigskin ledger open before her. A single animal fat candle burned in a saucer between her elbows. Its yellow flame flickered slightly whenever the wind rattled the loose slates on the kitchen roof.
Beside her, Sister Merrow was slicing cold salt pork on a scarred sycamore board. The retired military surgeon moved with the deliberate, heavy economy of someone whose knees had been ruined by four campaigns in the northern marshes. Every downward stroke of her broad kitchen knife was clean, splitting the fat with a dull thump-tack against the wood.
“You’ve been staring at that page for an hour, Pella,” Merrow said without looking up. “If you look at paper that hard, either the ink turns to gold or your eyes go sour. Drink your tea.”
Pella reached out and picked up her mug. The tea was dark, bitter, over-steeped with dried blackberry leaf and roasted chicory root, hot enough to scald the tip of her tongue. She took a swallow, welcoming the harsh, astringent heat that cut through the river dampness in her throat.
