He always knew it'd be something to see, a place that fed the Monastery and its people. But it had been a while since he'd seen anything quite so majestic. Smell lulled him to a false sense of safety – right up to where eyes were met with cookware hanging all around. Copper alone, dangling, cost more than their old house ever did. Suppose it made sense. They were famous...of course they have nice things.

But fuck. Looked fit for a noble and a half.

Still recovering from the shock, he nearly missed the invitation to help.

She'd... she'd let him touch the food?

He wasn't waiting for Venla to change her mind. Grabbed a bucket and carefully dunked it into the waterbarrel by the door – looked around for another, but couldn't find it. Not trusting himself to mess with the expensive stuff, got a deep wooden bowl and passed that through the barrel as well. Set them both on the floor before planting his ass down there too.

Boots got upturned and it rained thyme and chickweed, dandelion and thyme. Colorful snowfall mostly floating on the bowl's surface. Another basketcloud came, filled with primroses and violets. Sure was cloudy today.

Looked back to her after each beat – like he expected to get told he was overstepping.

„Gotta soak for a bit so we don't get the...“ it had been a while since he had to look for better words, so it took time. But she'd know what foxshits were, didn't look like a city girl. „Gotta get it all clean.“

Wasn't even sure when he lifted the pot scrubber, its coarse hairs sharp and hungry.

Dug his hands into the bucket one by one, as the other scrubbed. Trevor wasn't a pot. But he was far dirtier than one. And he wasn't going to enshiten all of this by unclean hands. So he dragged the brush back and forth until his hands started changing color. And if it bit him here and there...well, it wasn't an entirely unpleasant pain.

Hadn't thought of it in years, but his hands remembered.

„We had this herbed crust back home...“

Smile cracked him like an overboiled egg.

„Oh... did you just mean the flowers?“
 
Venla paused, lettuce cradled in the crook of one arm, and watched Trevor with a fond sort of amusement as herbs rained from his boots like blessings from the garden gods.

The scrub-brush rasped in his hands, fierce as a badger, and his brow was set like he meant to polish the sin clean out of his skin. The sight made her want to laugh and wrap him in a tea towel at the same time. There was something dear about the sight of it. Like a fox caught doing laundry.

“Well now, you’ll scrub yourself down to the bone if you keep on like that." She set the lettuce on the table.

“I’m not precious about it. The bread’ll be happier for having someone’s hands on it. You do it just how you like. Flowers, herbs, crust, whatever you think makes it good.”

She felt it in a quiet tug at her chest, the way the kitchen seemed to feel a little warmer with another person moving beside her. It wasn’t the bread or the salad that made it special, but the shared rhythm of hands at work. It was the small, homely magic of sharing a task. The soft thud of a knife on wood, the rustle of herbs, the low creak of floorboards under another pair of feet.

Something in her chest eased with it. Like a thread unwinding. The food would taste better. She knew that, somehow, not because it was seasoned well, or because the primroses were sweet, but because it was made and enjoyed together.
 
Scrub to the bone?

Trevor hesitated at that, fingers fumbled and the brush earned a short reprieve. Suppose some day he would. Some things were removed by polishing, others only became themselves more. And one day, there'd be nothing more to scrub.

But he wasn't going to dwell on sad shit. He was going to show her how they cooked back in Barrow.

The grey water looked back at him, like he'd sinned against it. Hands did look cleaner, though.

So he stole glances at his lettucewielding foreman. Wasn't used to being trusted with things. Didn't know what to do with it. Where did it even go?

Wanted to thank her for allowing him this...but it felt awkward. So he'd do it quietly – by baking the best damn herbcrust since he left Barrow.

Bucket got emptied outside, by the path. Bowl picked up and brought to the table. Eyes searched the place that chose not to hide knives from him.

He'd need to chop and sprinkle the little fu..guys.

„Maybe we even braid the edges, like hair.“ Smiled in memory.

Didn't wait for approval this time.
 
Trevor’s voice, soft and full of memory, made her glance up from her salad bowl, her hands full of lettuce and primroses. “A braid?” she echoed, a smile blooming in her voice. “I like that.” There was something about it that struck her as deeply charming, like something out of a county fair. Bread with a braid, like it is dressed up for a party. Like it’s proud to be eaten.

Venla’s hands moved gently through the lettuce leaves, rinsed and drying in the wide bowl. She smiled down at the salad as she worked, breaking the leaves, not slicing, never slicing; leaves should be torn. Into the bowl went the sweet peas, little curly tendrils still clinging to the blossoms. She crumbled in the cheese next, letting it fall in uneven hunks, and then dropped a few golden primroses into the green like a painter dabbing sunlight onto a canvas.

Glancing toward him as he worked the dough. “That bread is coming on lovely.” Venla tore the last of the lettuce into the bowl with careful hands, her sleeves rolled back just far enough to keep them out of the way. She gave the greens a final shake, droplets scattering across the table like dew.

She leaned over the table, reaching for the linen-wrapped bundle she’d brought up from the cold cellar. The smoked salmon was unwrapped with a rich scent. She flaked it with her fingers, letting the pink curls fall gently into the bowl alongside the cheese, lettuce, sweet peas, and primroses. The salad looked lovely with its pale gold, soft greens, and the sunset hue of fish.

She stole another glance back at Trevor. The sight of him there, shoeless, herbs still clinging to his trousers, hands dusted with flour, settled something in her. Homesickness.
 
Cloth partially stuffed under his collar, the other end hung down his chest. They would likely need to burn the rag after, but it allowed him to keep both hands free. The dough was well rested, so he wouldn't need to work it too much. But he would need the strands. He knew there were breadweavers out there who could damn well roll anything into a braid... but best to stick to stuff he knew how to do. Fucking up the food seemed rude at this point.

Floated around the kitchen like dandelion fluff. Got a knife he trusted more than his own, and watered the kettle before putting it over the hearthfire. A wipe of hands between each step. Could never be too clean.

Snip and snap of root an herb. Cut and slice of knife. Small things learning to be smaller.

Smell drew him back again. The fish didn't smell like fish. It smelled...fancy. Like one of those upswim jumpers. They could never afford it, but he remembered the stolen taste. Sniffed the air like it was trying to trick him. But if it was to be a lie, it would be a good one. Wouldn't mind being blind for a moment.

„Was thinking we twinbraid it, and then roll a threebraid around it.“ Eyeballed the dough before cutting a third off. Halved the smaller bit and thirded the larger one, until five evenish chunks of dough stood in formation on the table.

„Wanna help me with it?“ Looked at her hair. Probably knew more about braiding than his sorry ass. And where other people would've spread more flour on the tabletop, he sprinkled out the tinified herbs. Because that was what made it special. Each strand had a coating, and as they twisted over each other, they'd make an inside crust and and outside crust. Something to crunch up top, and something to surprise further in.

The ball was too sticky in his hand, so he wet it.
 
After breaking the salmon into the salad, she walked over to the little stone basin by the open door and scrubbed her fingers hard with a sliver of lavender soap. She sniffed her palm. Frowned. Washed again. The smell still clung, soft but stubborn, like smoke in wool. Dried the hands on the hem of her dress.

And then he looked at her with that question, wanna help me with it? and something bloomed up behind her ribs. She smiled, brushing her still-damp fingers against the linnen of her dress again. She stepped over, pushing a curl of red hair behind her ear, and looked down at the five little balls of dough he’d shaped so carefully. “Oh, look at that,” she said, delighted.

Venla hesitated at the edge of the table, “I’d love to help...” she said, though her eyes dipped briefly to her hands, still fretting. “Though my hands still smell like fish.” Her voice a little sheepish. Fretting a little over the idea of fish-smell clinging to the dough. It was good salmon, smoked just right and salted the proper way... but still, bread was bread.

“Best I keep my hands off it, don't want to ruin it." She stepped back, hands folded in behind her back. Venla was rocking a little on her heels. “But I’ll see to the fire, if you don’t mind. Oven needs a bit more heat before she’s ready to bake..." The stone oven crouched like an old, sleepy badger in the corner, all black-mouthed and soot-kissed.
 
Laugh almost climbed out his nose. Like she was the unclean one. Thought back to copper, as he licked the back of his teeth. Glad that the mess of hair hid the red at the top of his ears, he wasn't exactly staring – but when there were no distractions, you noticed things. Like how she wiped her hands on her own clothes.

„Hmm.“ And nodded sagely, as he slowly picked up the leftover dandelion root that didn't make it to the mince. Rough cuts. Couple tears. Uneven chunks. „It is known the bread is to smell like feet, not...pft...fish.“ And because he couldn't help himself: „Shame, Fishgirl. Showed real promise as a baker.“

As he talked, the rootchunks got slowly stuffed into the rag at his neck, chin holding it all in place.

„Could you dump this into the kettle and let it simmer?“ Ends wrangled together with the cleaner hand, bundle extended. And if this gave her something other than her own skirts to wipe her hands on – well that was nice too.
 
“Oh! Feetbread, is it?"

"And here I was thinkin’ it was the sweet herbs and careful hands that made a loaf worth the eatin’.” She took the ragged little bundle from him without fuss. "So now I’m Fishgirl, am I?” she said, in that lilting way of hers. “Suppose it only follows I start calling you Mister Toes, then. Bread’ll rise in your honour, smelling just like your boots.” Venla took the bundle with a little grin she tried to hide behind the sweep of her hair, though the smile still tugged at her cheeks and wouldn't quite be tucked away. The roots were knobbly and wild-cut, the cloth smudged and frayed at the corner.

Venla turned toward the hearth, her bare feet tapping softly over the flagstones.

She shook her head fondly and opened the kettle lid with the edge of a potholder, leaning back a bit from the steam as she dropped in the roots. A puff of green and bitter scent rose up, smelled like spring mud and stubborn weeds. Comforting, in a sort of way. “There,” she said, wiping her hands on a rag that was not her skirt this time. “Your potion’s on."

After that, she turned toward the stone oven. It was already warm with the steady fire kept alive from dawn till dusk, but if the bread were to rise tall and golden, it’d need a bit more heart to it yet. She gently laid in a few more logs, birch and applewood, the kind that smelled sweet when it caught flame. The fire cracked happily in return, sparks winking like fireflies before vanishing up the chimney.

Without ceremony, she hopped up onto the wide counter beside the hearth. Her legs were swinging off the edge. “Where’s home for you, then?” she asked, soft and curious “I don’t mean where your boots last touched ground, Mister Toes. I mean the real home."
 
Smiled, as the rag did its duty. Wasn't even sure if it helped. But it didn't harm. Sometimes, that was enough.

„Used to be Barrow, far south, by Garth.“ Remembered how fire worked it, like apple and birch. Didn't smell as nice.

„Floors used to be cool. Always smelled like basil by the window.“ Nose scrunched up. „Didn't much care for it, but the mosquitoes hated it more.“ Palms rolled the dough unevenly, but he needed something to keep his hands from thinking.

„Oh, make sure it's edge of flame.“ A welcome distraction. „Has to be convinced to tea. Tastes angry if you force it.“ Narrated in a granny voice. Still had time to rescue it, but hoped he wouldn't have to. Caught himself there. Why wouldn't he just fix it himself? Nuzzled his collarbone, feigning a sneeze coming up. Shook the thought well enough.

„Now, my home really is in my toes.“ Sounded relieved. Because toes weren't a home that could burn. And people had tried.

But sometimes peace settled in his chest, in a way no toehome ever could.

„What about you, Miss Fishfingers?“
 
“Oh, sh..” she blurted, already scrambling down from the counter. “Sorry... sorry." Grabbed the long-handled hook, and nudged the kettle back toward the edge of the heat. “Right, there. Edge of flame, like you said,” she said, glancing back at Trevor with a sheepish smile and pink cheeks. She dusted her hands off and, with a faint sigh, half-dignified, half-defeated.

When he called her Fishfingers, she gave him a look. “Fishfingers…” she muttered under her breath, trying not to grin. “You’re never lettin’ that one go, are you?”

My home really is in my toes.

“My folks ran a tavern,” she said, eyes drifting somewhere past the kitchen’s stone walls. "In Arrowdale. Snow on the roof in winter, barley the boots by summer."

A pause. Her smile faded a little at the edges, not sad, but something changed. “Hm,” she murmured, a little too quickly.

She moved toward the cupboard along the wall, hands busy rifling through neat stacks of plates and goblets. The clink of pottery and wooden bowls filled the silence, a comforting rhythm. Her cheeks still held a faint pink, whether from the almost incident with the brew or the mention of home, she wasn’t sure. Lifting a pair of mugs and a pair shallow plates from the shelf.

Venla gave a quick, small shake of her head, cheeks still tinged and turned away. “I’ll go see if I can find something nice to drink,” she said softly, moving toward the narrow stairs that led down to the cellar.
 
Had a joke lined up. Hell, he had three. But the light had dimmed in her eyes and he bit them down, quiet. Looked almost like him, when he remembered home. When the booze called and his hands shook. But he was pretty sure Arrowdale was still there. He'd been there earlier this year. For the fat butcher's kid. Twenty was too young to die...but old enough to know better.

So maybe it wasn't home that was gone. Just the Venla that grew up there. Sometimes people had used to lives – nothing to be done about it.

Tried to remember something nice about Arrowdale, and couldn't conjure much after the deed. Guess that meant they had strong drinks – places you remembered well were rarely worth remembering.

Couple nods through it all – wasn't even sure who they were for. But the repetition was soothing.

Strands worked the larger braid – one-two-three – in another life, he would've spent his time like this. Tired hands and an angry back. Getting up at the crack of dawn to argue with chickens and goats. But...hmm.

The quiet bothered him. So he hummed a song no one living remembered. Wasn't sure that was better, but at least it wasn't quiet.
 
The air in the cellar was cool and still, but it didn’t quiet her mind.

Venla moved between barrels and shelves, her hands trailing across old wood, fingers brushing dust, but the rhythm didn’t bring any comfort. The earthy scent of stone, oak and long-stored wine felt too familiar. Not like home, but like the memory of it trying to press itself against her skin.

She crouched by the cider casks, running her hand along one, and found herself holding her breath.

It’s nothing, she told herself.
Just apples and earth.
Just a cellar like any other.

But it wasn’t. It was the feeling that followed her down, memories rising. Memories that stuck. The kind that you kept behind your eyes. Just soft things that came when the world went still. Laughter around full tables. Her mother humming while hanging flowers to dry. Her own hands, smaller then, reaching for sticky apple slices or warm bread wrapped in cloth.

Something in her chest ached like she was mourning something. But Arrowdale was not lost.. it had only drifted away from her, like dandelion seeds caught by the wind. Venla blinked slowly and swallowed around the lump rising in her throat.

Venla found the bottles, her hands resting on the familiar curve of the glass. With bottles resting in the crook of her elbow, she went back up to the kitchens. The ache in her ribs didn’t go away, not fully, but she gave it no more room than she had to. Sadness had its place, sure enough, but it didn’t get to steal the joy out of warm bread and company.

She pushed open the cellar door with her hip and blinked into the light. “Hope you like apple cider, Feetman” she called, voice bright.
 
Feetman, huh? He'd take it. Been called worse. At least they weren't talking about the smell of his feet. As much as you could stuff a boot, stuffing an unwashed foot was tougher. Hopefully he'd stepped in enough thymey things on the way over. Like a field dressing for the spell of yuck cast about his toes.

Of course he liked cider. Because he liked numb. Whether it came from known quantities such as beer or schnapps, or from a nondescript weedremover in a chipped metal cup – didn't matter. Sometimes booze was soft enough to lull to sleep, others it could remove paint. But numb was numb.

Smiled at him like it was a job. Tone of her voice pulling overtime. That was alright – joy wasn't always ready to be rationed. Sometimes you had to fake the fucker. Remembered that wagonguy telling him about how more wheels made the whole thing whoosh by faster. Figured this was much the same.

„Love cider! So...um...we straight chugging the bottles or we feeling all fancy and poured?“

Looked down to the bread, all braided and gussied up.

„You know what? I think we do feel fancy.“ Smile of a kid who didn't break anything this time around.
 
Venla laughed softly at his grin as she put the bottles down on the kitchen counter. “Well now, who am I to stand in the way of a proper occasion?” Giggling softly as she swapped the plain old mugs for the goblets she'd found tucked high on one of the cupboard shelves. She gave each a quick polish with a kitchen linnen towel and set them down beside the salad bowl with a little nod, pleased with the shine.

Tilting her head at Trevor. “What d’you think, Feetman? Fancy enough?"

She turned toward the bread, gave the braided loaf a once-over, its golden dough nestled in herbs like it had been tucked in for a nap. “It's ready, I reckon,” Venla murmured, “Like it’s been waitin’ all morning for its moment in the fire.”

She made her way across the wide, flagstoned floor, toward the great stone oven set into the outer wall. It had a mouth like a giant’s yawn and was already breathing steady heat, as it had been since dawn. A monastery kitchen never quite cooled, not with so many mouths to feed. The wooden peel leaned beside the oven, old and worn smooth by years of use. Its long handle bore the marks of many early mornings, and the paddle end was flour-dusted from a loaf before them.

She hefted it with both hands, turned, and held it out to Trevor with a quiet little smile. “Here,” she said gently, like handing over something important. “Seems only right you see it off proper.”

Being here in the kitchen sharing the work, the small triumphs, the careful motions with someone, made her chest feel lighter and her mind quieter. Even as the old ache of missing Willard nudged at her. Would he ever come back? Would they ever find themselves in a kitchen, side by side, laughing over herbs and bread and spilling a little flour on the floor? She thought of Willard, and a small, wistful smile tugged at her lips.

She knew, deep down, that she and he moved to different rhythms. He was like the Wayfarer Moon, always moving, never stopping. He belonged to the wind, to the journey, to the spaces between.
 
It was probably rude to swipe the goblets, but the thought did cross his mind. People weren't supposed to have so many shiny things. Cause people weren't magpies. And all those shinies messed with your head – could be mad as a bird, before you knew it. Only took one copper complaining to a silver, all susurrous like. And that was that. If you were rich enough, could call it dragon sickness. If you weren't, going full magpie was close enough.

Did a bunch of nodding. Wasn't really sure what to say. Bread was breading, the oven was breathing down their necks, and the goblets were ready to get boozed up. It was a good moment.

Venla handed him a..suppose you could call it a breadshovel. Was obvious what it was for, he just wasn't sure what people called it. Alright, that was doable.

The first nudge of the shovel swiped the bread like it owed him money. Tried again, and just counterpunched it. Defeated, he simply dusted more flour over the shovelhead. Fuck it, hands worked fine. He'd seen people down south who were able to make their thinbreads jump onto the shovel...but guess he wasn't southern enough.

Wasn't sure if he'd fuck up the unloading, but that was alright. There was nothing other than the bread for fire to ruin. Small stakes really were the best.

Still tried his best to mimic a spear, jabbing the dough into the dark yawn. Never was much for polearms, too long, too heavy – but the feel was similar.

„You pouring those drinks or are we afraid they're gonna go too fishy?“

Hand reached out to check how the tea was coming along. Widely considered a bad move.

„Mother...hot, hot, hot, hot!“ pulled the hand back like he and the tea were enemies now. Maybe he could twonk it with the shovel too? But no. Wasn't the tea's fault he was a moron.

„They just let you mess with the kitchen by yourself?“ Felt like a strange kind of trust.
 
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