She finished the first rabbit and started on the second. The work steadied her. Gave her hands something to do, her mind something to focus on besides the ache in her legs and the strangeness of being here, in the mountains, surrounded by orc warriors who had sacked her home three days ago.
Fenrik dumped his potatoes into the pot and reached for an onion. He cut it in half, then quarters, then started dicing.
Mab watched his knife work for three strokes before the words came out.
"You're going to lose half of that to the fire."
Fenrik's knife stopped. He looked up, his expression unreadable.
"The pieces are too small," Mab said. She heard herself and almost stopped, almost swallowed the rest of the words the way she'd swallowed a thousand corrections in Garrad's kitchen. But Fenrik was looking at her like he was actually waiting for the rest. "They'll cook down to nothing before the rabbit's done. You want chunks. Bigger than your thumbnail."
Fenrik looked down at his onion. Looked at the pot. Looked back at her.
"Huh," he said.
He didn't argue. Just scraped the tiny pieces into his palm and tossed them into the fire, then started again. Bigger cuts this time.
"What else?" Grald asked.
"What else what?"
"What else are we doing wrong?"
Mab looked at the pot, at the fire, at the rabbits in her hands.
"The spit's too low," she said. "The outside will char before the inside cooks through. And the potatoes need to go in after the water boils, not before, or they'll go mushy." She hesitated. "And if those are herbs in that pouch, you should crush them first, not just throw them in whole. Releases the oils."
Grald and Fenrik exchanged a look. Then Grald stood, walked to the spit, and raised it two notches on the iron stand.
"Didn't know humans could be useful," Fenrik said, but there was no edge to it. Just observation.
Grald snorted. "When's the last time you actually talked to a human?"
"The merchant at the river crossing. Three summers back."
"That was you threatening to break his fingers if he shorted us again."
"Still talking."
Mab focused on the rabbit, but she could feel the smile tugging at her mouth. The banter was familiar in a way she hadn't expected. Different words, different voices, but the same rhythm as the kitchen workers at the holding. People who spent long hours together finding ways to pass the time.
"So you two are the cooks?" she asked.
Grald laughed. It was a rough sound, like rocks grinding together. "We're on rotation. Everyone takes a turn."
"Whether they know what they're doing or not," Fenrik added. "Food goes in the pot. Fire goes under the pot. Bellies get filled. That's the extent of it."
Mab's hands stilled on the rabbit. "That's it?"
"That's it." Grald shrugged, settling back onto his heels.
"I think—" Mab stopped. Started again. "It's more than that. Or it can be."
Fenrik's knife paused. "More than filling bellies?"
"Yes." The word came out before she could think better of it. She kept her eyes on the rabbit, on the clean lines of muscle and bone under her hands. "Food is... it's how you know someone thought about you. Someone wanted to take care of you. Wanted you to feel good, not just full."
Hester had taught her that without ever saying it aloud. The way she'd add extra butter to the bread pudding on cold mornings. The way she'd save the crispy bits from the bottom of the roasting pan for Mab, wrapped in a cloth and pressed into her hands when no one was looking.
