Jon took the cellar stairs two risers at a time, keeping his soles to the mortared wall edges where the seasoned pine treads were least likely to protest, the glazed salt crock held firmly in the crook of his left arm.
When he reached the top landing, he set the crock upon the scrubbed-pine trestle table by the scullery door. The kitchen smelled of woodsmoke, roasted barley, and the wet iron of the morning kettle. A gray wedge of dawn light angled through the diamond-paned casement above the sink, cutting across the scrubbed pine floor.
Elin was standing three paces from the hearth, her linen apron strings untied and trailing across the hem of her dark wool skirt. At her feet lay the shards of the yellow earthenware bowl that had shattered at the stroke of six, broken into four curved pieces upon the stones. A pool of cold milk was spreading toward the edge of the braided rag rug, carrying bits of dried oatmeal with it.
Her hands were suspended in the air before her breast, the fingers hooked, her gaze fixed upon the broken crockery as though waiting for the shards to leap back together.
“Elin,” Jon said, stepping onto the kitchen floor and keeping his boots clear of the puddle.
