The smell of crushed cloves and bitter mountain mint cut through damp lime and woodsmoke, filling the kitchen alcove with a clean, medicinal sting.
By the hearth, Fen tilted an amber vial over boiled linen wrapped around a pine splinter. With gentle fingers, the young healer pressed the swab against the raw edge of Hobb’s lower gum, where enamel had snapped away against granite half an hour earlier.
“Keep your tongue back,” Fen murmured. “If you lick the clove oil, your throat will go numb before broth leaves the trivet.”
Hobb winced, his thick shoulders hunched inside his greasy smock, his calloused hands gripping the bench. “Gah,” the cook spat into a shavings bowl. “It burns worse than hot dripping. What kind of herb cures a mouth by setting it afire?”
“The kind that keeps bone from festering in a winter siege,” Fen replied, stoppering the vial. “And reminds a cook that teeth were made for boiled turnips, not river pebbles from the mill ditch.”
Across the table sat the cedar prop box, lid thrown back. Inside rested the grey river cobble, smooth, heavy, and utterly devoid of butter.
From the chimney flue, Noll’s voice came through the stones as a low, dry rasp. “I phrased the assertion with complete grammatical precision. I stated that the cedar receptacle contained barley bread baked with salt and cream. The pitch was technically flawless.”
