The cellar stairs of the River Lantern led up into the small scullery pantry, where the smell of rain gave way to the rich, warm comfort of active domestic labor. The brick bake-oven was already thrumming with heat, its iron fire-door glowing a faint cherry red around the air holes. The air in the kitchen was thick with the scent of toasted rye flour, boiling vinegar, and dried summer savory.
Elin Hale stood before the long larder shelves, a stub of charcoal in her right hand and a scrubbed wooden tally shingle tucked beneath her arm. She wore her working apron of heavy gray homespun, her sleeves pinned above her elbows with brass bodkins, her dark hair tucked neatly beneath a white linen coif. On the floor beside her boots sat four open sacks of coarse winter grain: two of cracked barley, one of dark rye, and one of yellow field peas.
As Jon pushed through the pantry door, she did not startle. She made another short black mark upon the wood of the shingle, then turned her cool, steady gray eyes toward him.
“You smell of wet wool and town hall wax,” she said, her voice quiet in the warm kitchen. “What did our hero decree from his high walnut table?”
