Unless they had no other option…
“Because itisserious,” Ren snarled, whirling around to face her once more. “This will probably be lost on you, but there’s a beauty in livingwiththe natural world instead of in spite of it. Do you even know how many trees were felled to build this cottage? How much earth was shifted? How many plants and animals were displaced?”
“I’m guessing a lot, judging from your tone.”
“Yes. A lot,” Ren said, their voice flattening with contempt. “That’s why it’s so important to make space for nature, to takeonly what is necessary and no more. Anyone who refuses to honor this truth is a fool, as blind as the snake that eats its own tail.”
“All right,” Pansy said, the word scraping across her tongue like an anchor. “But you don’t seem very, um, happy? To be here, that is. I mean, you called it a ‘burden’ earlier, so…”
Ren blinked at her, their ears pricking up in what Pansy figured was an expression of surprise – but only for a beat. Soon, they were drooping once more, falling in time with the heavy sigh that escaped Ren’s lips. “What I want doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does!” Pansy protested, the words exploding out of her with more force than she’d intended. But that sort of weary resignation just didn’t sit right with her – especially when it came at the cost of her own cottage. “What’s the point of doing anything if it doesn’t make you happy? Honestly, I—” She snapped her mouth shut, words too personal for someone who was still just a stranger crashing against the backs of her teeth.I would still be back in Haverow if I hadn’t put my own happiness first.
“Fine,” Ren said with something like a huff. “Then what Iwantis for you to stop bothering me.” And with that, they turned on their heel yet again, seemingly convinced that the sight of their back would be enough to deter Pansy from making further conversation.
Unfortunately for Ren, the dirt crunching beneath Pansy’s feet had been a declaration of war, one she fully intended to win. If being as irritating as possible was the way to do it, then she would dedicate herself to the task as wholly as a cleric committed themselves to prayer. From now on, she’d be the gnat buzzing in Ren’s ear, utterly relentless, and if that alone didn’t convince the goblin to leave – well, Pansy was certain she could come up with something else.
But for now, she stepped forward, wedging herself into the space over Ren’s shoulder; not close enough to touch, but certainly well beyond polite boundaries. “What are you doing?” she asked, noting the way Ren stiffened in response.Perfect.
“Cooking. Obviously,” they muttered, an odd tremor hooking into their voice as they ducked their head to the side, long hair drawing over their face like a veil. “And in the interest of pre-empting your next question, I’m making a warm chestnut and mushroom salad.”
“What kind of mushrooms?” Pansy asked, curiosity, for the moment, overwhelming her desire to annoy as she peered at the tiny white buttons on Ren’s cutting board. Although the mushrooms had been divested of their stems, Ren evidently hadn’t gotten much further in their prep work, despite the knife in their hand.
In retrospect, the combination of “goblin” and “sharp object” should’ve sent alarm bells blaring in Pansy’s head. Growing up in Haverow, there’d been no shortage of stories about goblins and other servants of the dark lords committing acts of violence against poor, unsuspecting halflings, the subject of Lillishire ever-present, even if not mentioned outright. And yet, standing here, Pansy felt no danger from Ren; not even when they whirled on her in a flash of sharp teeth and a sneer.
“Edible ones,” they replied, upper lip curling. “Unlike those Bloodletters you stuffed into your basket the other day.”
Masking the fresh rush of scarlet to her face with a huff, Pansy said, “Edible is hardly the sort of measure you want to use for a dish. As far as bars go, that one is practically on the floor.”
“My cooking is fine.” Ren scowled. “Besides, it’s not like I’m making this for you or anything. There’s no reason for you to have an opinion on the matter.”
“Then why do you have enough ingredients for two servings?” Pansy asked, eyebrows arching as she pointed at the cutting board.
“I – I like having leftovers.”
Pansy snorted. “That’s about as believable as what I said yesterday about using those stupid Bloodletter Shrooms as decoration.”
“Believe what you want,” Ren said, turning back to their cutting board with an air of finality.
But, of course, things couldn’t end there – and not just because Pansy had thoroughly committed herself to the cause of annoying Ren into submission. No, if there was one thing she simply couldn’t abide, it was watching someone struggle in the kitchen. And Ren was struggling. Badly. For as much as their slices were perfectly even, each chunk of mushroom the same size as the last, they were slow – painfully, horribly slow. Like take-all-night kind of slow. Suddenly, it made sense why they’d started preparing dinner well before sundown.
“Gods,” Pansy groaned. “This is painful to watch. Give me that.”
Not even waiting for Ren to agree, she reached for the knife, pulling it free despite Ren’s shouts of protest. Although Pansy would acknowledge, at least privately, that she’d risked cutting either one (or even both) of them with her impatience, in the end, it had worked out; so, what was the problem?
“Go get the other ingredients,” Pansy said, quickly shooing Ren away with one hand before she began chopping up the mushrooms. In a matter of seconds, she’d accomplished what would have doubtless taken Ren at least an hour, given their earlier pace.
Honestly, this should have pleased Ren. Pansy had done thema favor. But not even a mote of gratitude filtered through their venomous expression.
“You’ve ruined it!” they cried, jerking briefly against what Pansy assumed was the urge to wrestle their knife back before better sense prevailed.
“How am I ruining it?” She gestured to the chopped-up mushrooms. Although her knife-work was not as exacting as her mother’s, it was still perfectly respectable. She might not have made the most even of cuts, especially compared to the couple Ren had managed to get through before she’d elected to put them (and her, quite frankly) out of their misery. But a bit of varying thickness never hurt anyone – so long as the pieces remained comfortably bite-sized, which they did.
Maybe Pansy’s mother would disagree.Presentation is just as important as taste, she’d always say, chiding Pansy for every misshapen meatball, every cracked pie crust. But aesthetics alone wouldn’t save a dry, under-seasoned chicken breast cooked within an inch of its life. Nor would it fill anyone’s stomach come dinnertime when half the prep still wasn’t done.
“You made it ugly,” Ren groused, looking down at the fruits of her labor with unvarnished disgust.
Pansy rolled her eyes. “My gods, you’re worse than my mother. Maybeyoushould be the one to go back to Haverow. You’ll fit right in with that need for everything to look perfect.”
