Day after day, meal after meal, Doll shuffled downstairs into the inner kitchen and got to work.
In the mornings, she had to stretch the stiffness, the dull ache that inevitably built up over the course of a fitful night’s sleep out of her bones. And in the evenings she had to massage her swollen ankles, her screaming feet as soon as she had a moment to collapse onto a chair. Doll was older than anyone she knew—but then again, most everyone she knew wore a mark, one that all but promised a short life. Doll’s years weighed heavy on her, the ones she’d spent in the queen’s camps weightier than all the rest.
But Doll knew a secret, and she was convinced it was what had kept her alive to grow weary and wrinkled. She’d stumbled upon a strange, subtle magic decades ago, and she’d gone on using it for years before she even recognized what it was, and even longer before she realized its power.
It was a simple ritual. All Doll had to do was step into her kitchen, pull the ties of her apron tight around her, and suddenly—
Doll was six years old again, standing on a stool so she could see over the counter while her granny chopped vegetables or rolled out dough. The sound of oil popping in a pan, the smell of garlic roasting, the feel of soft flour between her fingers—they took her home. She could all but hear her granny’s voice, feel her soft, scarred, cook’s hand on her shoulder.
Atta girl. Taste of it an’ name yer thoughts. And then a sweet, deep belly laugh. More honey? Cain’t say I disagree, Dolly.
Dolly.
How long since she’d heard that name from anyone but a ghost?
All through lunch preparation after their meeting, Doll kept her mind only on the food before her. It wasn’t much to work with—past few days, she’d cooked up just about every type of food they had in an attempt to fill the new bellies wandering around camp, and now the pantry was nearly bare, save for the mounds of dough she’d left to rise, an herb here and a spice there, a big basket of forage from yesterday, and a sack of dried beans. Next, she shuffled over to what looked like a big stone crypt and grabbed the crank set into the wall next to it. She turned the crank and with the rattling of chains, the squeaking of gears, and the groaning of stone, the slab that was the lid of the crypt propped itself open.
When Daivad had brought this crypt up and hauled it into her kitchen, she’d half thought he’d finally gotten tired of her and this was meant to be her crypt. But it turned out to be an old Earthbreaking trick—he’d carved a rune onto the inside of the stone box, and so long as someone came by to maintain the magic of the rune every week or so (more often in hot weather), the inner part of the crypt would stay cold. He’d called it a cold box, but Doll had always just called it the crypt, and eventually the name stuck.
Inside the crypt were only the bones left over from the last hunt—and the crypt was losing its chill. Daivad hadn’t been by to renew the runes for quite a while. She needed to use these bones soon.
Heat be damned, broth and bean soup with a side of bread it was. Hopefully Tobei would be back with some more food before dinner, otherwise they might have to resort to munching on bark. There was no shortage of it in this forest.
Considering her limited supplies, Doll was pretty proud of her work. Determined to stay focused on the food and only the food, she had put everything she had into this simple soup, and it came together beautifully. She had to tie a handkerchief over her hair and keep a fresh one stuffed in the pocket of her apron to keep the sweat dripping from her hairline from making the soup a bit too salty, but by the Mothers, the soup tasted good.
Finally, it was time to ring the bell.
Clang clang clang!
Doll sucked in a lungful of sticky air and hollered, “Any’a y’all so much as think about complainin’ we’re havin’ soup in this heat you better just go hungry today, ‘cause you come in here with that nonsense an’ you’ll be wearin’ soup on your way out!”
Then, she quickly shuffled back behind the safety of her serving counter.
Since the group from Duxon had arrived, Tobei had come by during mealtimes to collect batches of whatever food Doll had prepared and taken them to wherever it was the newcomers were staying right now. He said this was to ensure they got food since they didn’t yet know how things worked yet and might miss out on meals, but Doll had come to suspect it was also to lessen Doll’s load. The boy was like that, tricking Doll into accepting his help, making her think she was doing him the favor. It irked her to no end and she loved him for it.
But he was off right now, taking his whiskey to Urden, so Doll didn’t know what would happen. If the boy had put someone else in charge of feeding the newcomers, or if they’d finally show up here themselves.
If he would show up here himself.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
She hadn’t recognized him, his face as weathered and wrinkled and broken as it was now. Even his scent had changed over the decades. How he’d recognized her right away, she didn't know. He didn’t have Inhuman senses to give him any hints.
But the moment he’d spoken, something long dead in Doll’s chest, something she’d put in the ground herself and never once revisited in over twenty years, awoke within its coffin and began to scream.
When the door opened to allow the first batch of empty bellies into her kitchen, Doll’s heart stuttered in her chest. Her eyes darted over the group—but he wasn’t there. Each time the door opened, each fresh face that appeared before her wound Doll just a bit tighter. Several of the Duxon group showed up, their sunken eyes regarding the soup she ladled into their bowls as if it were liquid gold. Each one thanked her earnestly, which she was not in the mood for.
At least no one gave her any lip today.
The stream of people through the line slowed to a trickle, and then to a drip here or there until her kitchen was all but empty and Doll could breathe a sigh that was half relief and half exhaustion. Doll hauled the last steaming pot back into the kitchen’s back room and dropped it into the sink with all the others, setting off a cacophony of clangs that grated Doll’s sensitive ears. But not as much as the sound of the outer door opening once again.
Without daring to peek out of the back room to see who had entered, Doll shouted, “Soup’s gone. Missed your chance.”
“Too bad,” that old, familiar voice called back. “I’ve dreamed of your cooking every night for Mother only knows how many years.”
Doll froze in the middle of swiping sweaty hands down her apron. She considered ignoring him. A lack of response would probably either lead him to push further, perhaps even to round that counter and come into this back room, or to leave. She didn’t know which scared her more.
No. She wouldn’t let this scare her. Hurt her. Never again.
“Shoulda showed up sooner, then!” she griped, then rapped a swollen knuckle on the rune cut into the side of the faucet. After a moment, the faucet burped up a bit of water, just enough to splatter the top pot, and quit.
“Mother dammit!” she snarled.
This rune too had been neglected. Daivad was supposed to come by last week to renew the runes—he was the only one who knew Metalwork. But he’d been gone, and now he was gone again. Which meant Doll was going to have to use the hand pump. Her joints ached at the very idea.
Edgar’s voice was just on the other side of the door now, “You alright?”
“I’m fine!” she snapped, and shuffled over to the pump.
When she’d first come to the camp, the pump had been set over the sink, but the sink was large enough and Doll was short enough that she had to climb onto a footstool to get the leverage she needed to work it. She’d shown up one morning to find the pump moved to the side of the sink where she could reach it easily. She’d cussed Daivad to hell and back for changing things in her kitchen without asking, and he’d just said something along the lines of, “You’re welcome, you old bat.”
That was when Doll had decided she liked Daivad.
Still, even though she could reach it now, it didn’t make using the pump easy. Doll threw her whole, slight frame onto the handle and, with an earsplitting shriek, it slowly, slowly sank down. She had barely used it since Daivad had put in the runes a few months after he’d moved the pump for her, and it seemed as eager to get moving as her bones were when she got out of bed in the morning.
The door opened, and Doll already knew who she’d find on its other side. She snatched up a ladle from the sink and brandished it. “Ain’t no one allowed in my kitchen but me!”
Edgar’s bright blue eyes crossed as he looked at the ladle that threatened him an inch from his nose, but he didn’t balk. To the ladle, he said, “Even if I offer help?”
“‘Specially then!” she snapped. “No one’s allowed in my kitchen, and they sure as hell ain’t allowed to touch nothin’.”
Edgar’s eyes shifted to focus on Doll’s face—she was sure it must be sweaty and flushed, her white hair ratty, though thankfully hidden beneath a handkerchief—and he held up his gnarled hands in surrender. He stayed firmly in the doorway. Not technically in her kitchen, but close enough she couldn’t close the door.
He smiled at her—the years of imprisonment, of endless toil and only stone to sleep on, had gouged deep wrinkles into the man’s handsome face. But, by some miracle, he’d managed to dig the smile lines that framed his mouth, that decorated the corners of his eyes almost as deep.
Doll scowled, but simply chucked the ladle back in the sink and resumed her battle with the faucet. For a minute or two, Edgar simply watched her in silence—well, he was silent. Neither the pump nor Doll could claim the same. She turned her back to him, but it did little to dampen the feel of his gaze on her.
Finally, he spoke: “You don’t name my face Familiar, ay?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I’d name yours Familiar.”
She wished she hadn’t responded.
He continued, raising his voice to speak over the squealing pump, “It’s the same name I’d give that temper. That stubbornness. The accent you refuse to lose.”
“I ain’t got an accent, all y’all got accents,” she snapped.
“And I’d name Familiar…” His voice was closer now. She stiffened. “…The way you’d sooner kiss the queen than ask for help.”
Doll kept her eyes on her own hands where they gripped the handle of the pump, but saw Edgar’s gnarled fingers and swollen knuckles close around the handle just above hers. He threw his weight on the pump, but his slight frame did only a little more than hers.
“Luckily,” he said brightly. “I can’t claim the same issue. So: help me with this, wouldja?”
With their combined weight, the water began to flow.