The kitchen in the Reed family tenement was small, low-ceilinged, and warm. In the corner hearth, chunks of clean hard coal burned with a steady, smokeless blue flame. It sent up a rich, fragrant steam from the heavy cast-iron stew pot resting on the trivet.
Around the scrubbed pine table sat five people: Tomas Reed, his father Emmet, his mother Sera, Nessa Vale, and Mirelle Voss.
Mirelle had arrived from the Northern Grave Ward at dusk. Her dark wool traveled cloak hung by the door, her severe, elegant face softened by the warmth of the fire. She sat beside Sera Reed, who was ladling thick, steaming stew—filled with tender beef, leeks, yellow turnips, and pearled barley—into wide clay pot bowls.
Emmet Reed sat at the head of the table, his carved willow crutch propped against the corner cupboard. In his weathered hands, he held a crusty loaf of dark rye bread, carving thick slices with his pocket knife and passing them around the board.
Tomas sat beside Nessa, his left arm resting comfortably on the table in its clean linen wrap. He picked up his wooden spoon with his right hand, eating with the hearty, unrushed appetite of a man who had walked twenty miles through freezing mud.
