The kitchen smelled of browning onions, hot butter and snow-berries bubbling down to jam, a smell Loccy trusted completely. She stood on a stool at the stove, sleeves rolled, stirring with a spoon the length of her arm.
Four chickens, two roast boar legs and a mountain of dumplings waited on the long counter for their turn.
Vella leaned in the doorway with a cup of tea, watching the pots with open fondness, "Bun, the duel is at tomorrow's dawn, you are cooking a victory dinner for a fight that hasn't happened."
"If I cook the victory first, the victory has to come, it would be rude not to," Loccy explained, tasting her spoon with deep seriousness.
"That is the most dangerous reasoning I have heard all week."
"Is it wrong?"
"It is wonderful, darling, I would simply like to see it work," the older woman said, slipping a sprig of mint into the pot as though that were perfectly ordinary.
Stirring in slow circles, Loccy asked, "Are you scared, Vella, you keep checking the window?"
