Petta put three fuel bills on the table.
“Which of these,” she asked, “does everyone think can be paid with thanks?”
Asa looked at the bills.
No one answered.
The cookhouse roof kept the morning rain outside. Beneath it sat representatives from four ward kitchens, two host cooks, a woman who kept accounts for a group of households and a carrier whose cart stood in the yard. The room smelled of washed grain and the onions Petta had put on before the meeting.
Vale sat beside the old Sill cook, her hands folded around a cup.
She had promised the cooperative two afternoon turns. The proposed roster respected them. Asa had checked before bringing it to the table.
“We pay the fuel,” the woman with the household accounts said.
