By eleven-thirty on the morning of Day Twenty-Nine, the inside of the Old Ferry Storehouse was entirely suffused with the deep, savory perfume of braised beef shank, sweet garden parsnips, cracked black peppercorns, and young leeks. In the brick hearth Eren Tal had built along the northern wall, a gentle fire of split white birch logs burned with a clear, smokeless amber flame, warming the heavy cast-iron stew pot that hung from a forged iron swivel crane.
Sister Merrow stood before the hearth in her starched white linen apron. She held a carved pearwood tasting spoon in her right hand. She lifted the iron lid with a folded cloth. That let a fragrant plume of steam roll upward into the chimney pipe. Then it took a small sip of the glistening broth. She nodded in quiet satisfaction, her weathered face relaxing into lines of calm test.
“The shanks are coming apart under the ladle, Pella,” Sister Merrow called across the bay. “Four hours of slow simmering with wild upland thyme and two cups of tart cider from the Lower Orchards. During the first two weeks of the breach, we ate cold salted fatback and dry hardtack standing knee-deep in drainage muck, swallowing our food without tasting it. That was because the pumps were shrieking. But food eaten in terror only rots in the belly. Today, the people who worked those pumps can sit down, chew their bread, and taste the salt.”
