Jon stepped through the connecting door into the kitchen, pulling the latch firmly shut behind him to keep the draft from entering the warded parlor.
The kitchen was quiet now. The shattered yellow bowl still lay in four curved fragments upon the hearth stones, but the pool of spilled milk had been mopped clean, leaving only a dark, damp circle on the pine floor. In the scullery, the copper kettle sat cold upon the iron trivet, its whistle silent, while the morning light poured through the eastern casement, illuminating the dancing specks of wood-ash in the air.
He crossed the room to the pantry—a narrow cupboard built into the thick exterior wall beside the chimney flue, where dry herbs, smoked herring, and salt cod were kept away from the cellar dampness. The shelves smelled of dried bay leaves, cured pork, and the bitter dust of summer hops stored in burlap sacks. On the top shelf sat the stoneware crocks of pickled onions and apple cider vinegar, their cork bungs tied down with greased pigskin to keep out the fruit flies.
The interior of the cupboard was lined with split cedar shingles, each nailed to the studding with flat-headed copper tacks. Jon knelt before the lower shelf, took his notched skinning knife from his belt, and slid the flat of the blade beneath the edge of the third shingle from the floor. He levered the wood gently, feeling the head of the center tack pull free from the dry lath with…
