Frida kept stirring the pot long after it needed stirring. Her hands needed the work. If they stopped, her thoughts would have too much room to wander, and tonight she had no desire to let them.
Each time boots scraped past the kitchen door, she found herself counting the footsteps before she even realized she was doing it. The habit had been built over years. Once, every set of footsteps had sent a chill through her chest while she tried to guess who was coming.
Tonight it was only Leod's stride, or someone dragging a bench somewhere down the hall. The old fear stirred, found no threat, and slipped away again.
Steam rolled off the pot, carrying the smell of salt, roots, and something close enough to bread that it made her stomach tighten despite having already eaten beside the fire.
