The kitchen of the Venn cottage was cooler than the pottery yard outside, shaded by the overhanging straw roof of the roof edges and the thick stone walls that had stood for three ages. The air smelled of seasoned birch smoke, dried summer sage hanging in dark green bundles from the roof poles. The familiar, damp stone tang of potting clay that never entirely left Maud’s apron.
On the scrubbed white pine table, sunlight fell through the small leaded windowpanes in diamond-shaped patches, lighting up the scattered knife gouges and dried berry stains left from Kezra and Davren’s childhood.
Maud closed the heavy oak door, dropped the wooden latch into its iron keeper. Then she turned the iron key. She didn’t speak. She walked across the slate flags to the hearth shelf above the cooling embers, reached into the shadow behind the salt crock. Then she brought down a wrapped bundle of oiled linen.
Kezra sat on the bench on the south side of the table. That kept her right ear turned toward the center of the room. Paxa Sel slipped quietly onto a low stool near the water pail, her hands folded in her lap, her medical satchel resting by her boots. The traveling healer knew when her skills were needed and when her only duty was to be a quiet, respectful witness.
