"It's just... we don't usually..."
"Shop? Cook? Eat proper food? Yes, I've noticed." I'm already looking for firewood. There isn't any. Of course there isn't. "Wood too. For the fire. Unless you prefer eating cold raw chicken, which I don't recommend."
They flee. Good. I have work to do.
By the time they return—laden with bags and looking bewildered—I've got water boiling and the hearth actually producing heat. Other guild members have been drawn by the unusual sight of their kitchen being used for its intended purpose. They hover in doorways.
"Excellent." I start unpacking. Real vegetables. Fresh bread. The chicken looks properly plucked. "Who knows how to cut vegetables?"
Silence.
"Anyone? Basic knife skills? You're all professionally stabby people."
"S'not the same," someone mutters from the back.
"It's exactly the same. Just different target. Here." I hand a knife to a woman with intricate braids. "Dice these onions. Small pieces. Precise."
She takes the knife like it might explode. Starts cutting. Badly, but she's trying.
"Smaller," I correct. "And watch your fingers. I can't heal everyone if you all start bleeding."
"You can heal?" This from Gray Streak, who's appeared with perfect timing.
"Not the point. Carrots next. You." I point at a younger man with terrible posture. "Peel these."
"A what?"
"The thing in that bag that peels vegetables."
And somehow, I end up with eight hardened criminals in various stages of food preparation. Someone's actually taking notes. The woman with braids—Syl, she signs—has moved onto celery and is doing much better. Gray Streak is attempting to tear bread into chunks.
"The chicken needs cleaning," I announce. Everyone steps back. "Oh for—it's dead. It can't hurt you."
"It's slimy," Finn protests.
"Many things in life are slimy. We persevere." I demonstrate proper chicken cleaning. "See? Now it's ready for soup."
The kitchen fills with steam and the smell of actual food. I add the vegetables to the pot, then the chicken. Bay leaves from Matthias's shop. Salt. A lot of salt.
"How long?" Davis asks. He's been stirring religiously for twenty minutes.
"Another hour at least. Soup takes time." I taste the broth. Needs more salt. "Has anyone checked on Ridge?"
"I did." A girl who can't be older than sixteen raises her hand. "Fever's down. He's sleeping."
"Good. When he wakes, he gets broth first. Just broth. His stomach won't handle more yet."
The hour passes with me teaching basic cooking skills to people who could probably kill me dozens of ways but can't figure out how to tell when onions are properly sautéed. Someone takes detailed notes about browning meat. Another asks why we add vegetables in a specific order.
When the soup's ready, we have a problem. No bowls. Or rather, not enough bowls. They have eight bowls for what's clearly forty-plus people.
"We share," Gray Streak says, like this is normal.
"Absolutely not. Everyone needs their own bowl. Don't you have a treasury? Gold? Ill-gotten gains?"
"Yes?"
"Then tomorrow someone's buying dishes. Bowls, plates, cups that don't leak."
