As we walk through the camp, every inch of me is aware ofhis presence. The way he moves. The slight brush of his arm against mine as we navigate between tents.
“Where are we going?” I ask, trying to distract myself.
“To see Morwen, the camp cook. You said you were looking for work, yes?”
I nod as we approach a massive, dome-shaped tent, the smell of fresh bread making my stomach growl.
“Hungry?” he teases.
I grin. “No, that was just my stomach’s way of saying good morning.”
As we enter the tent, I look around, taking in the large iron pots hanging over crackling fires. Wooden shelves line the walls, sagging under the weight of countless jars, pots, and baskets. To my right, a long table dominates one side of the tent. It’s covered in an assortment of knives, wooden spoons, and other utensils. Flour dusts its surface like fresh snow, and several loaves of bread cool on a nearby rack.
Excitement fills my chest as I take it all in. This is a place where my skills as a cook could truly shine.
An older woman glances at us from her place near the table. Cenric introduces her as Morwen.
Her hair is as white as a cloud, but her eyes. They’re clear blue and sharp. Even her hands are a paradox. They look weathered and worn, like they’ve seen more work than a village blacksmith, yet they move with the grace and precision of a master artist as she effortlessly kneads a lump of dough.
Her apron is a patchwork of pockets and pouches, each one filled with herbs andspices.
I wonder if she ever loses things in there. Does she ever reach for salt and pull out sage instead?
There’s a glint in her eyes that makes me think she’s seen it all. It’s the look of someone who could either offer you a goblet of mint tea or a swift kick in the backside, depending on what you need most. Something tells me she’s usually right about which one it is too.
A frown appears between her brows as she eyes me, and I resist the need to check if I still have mud on my face from yesterday.
“This is Everly,” Cenric says. “She’s looking for work, and she’s an excellent cook.”
Morwen grunts as she looks me up and down. “Can you knead bread?”
“I can knead bread so well, the dough practically begs for mercy,” I say, earning a snort from Morwen.
“Fine,” she says. “You can start by helping with the morning bread.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Cenric says as he turns and leaves the tent.
Part of me wants to call out after him, to confess everything, but the thought of my family and that poor woman in Hawke’s cell stops me.
So, instead, I dive into the work, kneading dough with the ferocity of a warrior battling a horde of angry monsters. My arms burn, but I keep at it, determined to prove my worth. Morwen watches with a keen eye, probably waiting for me to collapse in a heap of flour and sweat.
“When you’re done with that, peel these potatoes,” she says, pointing to a mountain of spuds.
I attack the potatoes with a knife—one after another until my fingers are raw and my back aches.
Next on Morwen’s list of culinary tortures: chopping onions. I blink back tears as I slice through what feels like the millionth onion.
By midday, I’ve peeled, chopped, and kneaded more food than I’ve ever seen in my life. My hands ache, my back screams, and I’m pretty sure I’ve sweated out half my body weight. Yet, as I look around at the fruits of my labor—the rows of fresh bread, the pots of savory stew—I feel a sense of pride.
When the sun rises high in the sky, the warriors break from their training and make their way to the center of the camp, where Morwen and I serve them.
I move between the men, ladling steaming soup into their bowls. The rich aroma of herbs and vegetables wafts up, making my stomach growl.
Maybe I can sneak a bowl later if Morwen isn’t looking. She probably has eyes in the back of her head, though.
“Watch it,” a gruff voice warns as I nearly collide with a broad chest.
I look up...and up...and up some more.
