Mother Vale had put the good spoons away.
Iven noticed the empty hooks before he noticed the parcel beneath the counter. The kitchen still steamed. People still came in through the side door with bowls, questions and news from relatives already across. But the old spoons with the polished handles were no longer hanging above the preparation table.
“Packed?” he asked.
“Counted. Not the same thing.”
She lifted the parcel far enough for him to see the string, then set it down again.
“Your trial made the bowls sing,” she said.
“Only the loose ones, I hope.”
“One of them belonged to a woman who thought it meant the water was turning.”
