The kitchen of the River Lantern smelled of boiled mutton, scrubbed deal boards, and the sharp, sour tang of leavened rye dough resting under damp towels by the chimney breast.
Outside, the midday drizzle of Flood Month pattered against the leaded panes, washing gray streaks down the glass toward the stone sill. Inside, the hearth coals held a steady, orange heart that threw waves of dry heat into the center of the room. On the pine trestle table, between the salt box and the tallow candle mold, young Tobin sat with his elbows planted wide, his mud-spattered leather coat unbuttoned at the throat to reveal a gray woolen undershirt stiff with sweat and road grime.
Elin set a yellow earthenware bowl directly into the circle of his arms. The mutton broth steamed fiercely, carrying the scent of simmered marrow, crushed coriander seed, and winter turnips chopped into clean, thumb-sized cubes.
“Eat before the fat congeals,” Elin said, her voice carrying the level, brisk cadence she had used in the field hospitals along the northern border. She set a heavy horn spoon beside his fingers and tapped the rim with two knuckles. “Do not bolt the broth in three swallows, either. Your stomach will rebel if you pour boiling grease into cold ribs after thirty leagues in the saddle.”
