"Huh," Grald said again.
Fenrik crushed the herbs between his palms the way she'd suggested, and the smell that rose from them was sharp and green and alive. He sprinkled them into the pot.
"You sound like Kira."
"Kira?" she asked. Varek had mentioned her earlier, the grumpy old cook at Northwatch.
"Northwatch cook," Grald said. "Mean as a wet cat and twice as loud. But she makes a stew that'll make you weep."
"She threw a ladle at my head once," Fenrik offered.
"Did you deserve it?"
"Absolutely."
Mab finished the second rabbit and set it aside, wiping her hands on her apron. The motion was automatic, muscle memory from a thousand similar moments. "What's she like? Beyond the ladle-throwing?"
Grald considered the question. "Old. Seventy-something. Been cooking at Northwatch since before any of us were born."
"She's got opinions," Fenrik said. "About everything. How you hold a spoon. How you chew. Whether you're eating fast enough or too fast. She'll tell you either way."
"She'll tell you twice," Grald agreed. "And then she'll feed you until you can't move and tell you that you're too skinny."
Mab thought about Hester. About the way she'd rap your knuckles for sloppy work and then slip you an extra portion when no one was looking. "She sounds..."
"Terrifying," Fenrik supplied.
"I was going to say familiar."
Grald's chuckle came again, lower this time, mostly breath. "You'll either love her or she'll make you cry."
"Sometimes both," Fenrik said. "Same meal."
Mab found herself looking forward to it. To meeting someone who cared about food the way Hester had. The way she did, even if she'd never been allowed to show it.
The stew came together as the light faded. Mab jointed the rabbits and added them to the pot at the right moment, adjusting the heat by shifting the pot's position over the coals. Fenrik watched her do it without comment, then did the same thing when she wasn't looking, like he was practicing.
When the food was ready, warriors gathered around the fires with their bowls. The noise level rose. Laughter, conversation, the scrape of spoons against wood. Mab hung back near the cookfire, uncertain where she belonged in the loose clusters forming around the flames.
Varek appeared at her elbow. He didn't say anything, just handed her a bowl and steered her toward a flat rock near the larger fire with his hand on the small of her back. He sat first and pulled her down onto his lap. The heat of him cut through the mountain cold.
Mab looked down at her bowl. The stew steamed in the firelight, chunks of rabbit and potato visible beneath the surface. The smell rising from it was rich and savory.
She took a bite.
It was good. Not perfect. The rabbit was slightly tough, the potatoes a touch underdone. But the flavors were there, layered and warm, and her stomach unclenched.
She took another bite. Then another.
"You helped with this?" Varek asked.
"Grald and Fenrik did most of the work." She kept her eyes on her bowl.
"Fenrik hasn't made anything edible in three years of rotation." Varek's voice was dry. "Do not sell yourself short."
Across the fire, Grald caught her eye and raised his bowl in a small salute. Fenrik was too busy eating to notice anything, his spoon moving with single-minded focus.
Mab kept her eyes on her bowl. She took another bite she didn't need, just to have a thing to do with her mouth, a thing to do with her hands, somewhere to put her face that wasn't anyone's eyes.
