A fresh blast of heat from the red desert of coals was just a little too warm to be welcome, even with the biting chill of oncoming night that lingered on Lenara’s half-roasted body. She briefly considered turning her backside toward the quivering embers, but considered how she would look warming her posterior at the bread-baking station, and dismissed the idea with a smirk at the private image.
Instead, she just decided to be glad it was her turn to monitor golden, glistening loaves that served as the main staple in the Defiants’ diet.
Supper had become more than the highlight of Lenara’s day; it was the only time besides when she trained with Sernah when she felt truly warm. Despite the fact that breakfast was typically heated as well, it was eaten hastily among the Defiants and usually wolfed down individually before any personal interaction was made; a quick, lonely stab of nourishment before the days’ chores began. Lunch was even worse. It was usually taken by each person in their respective packs to be eaten when hunger impeded further work.
But Lenara was a people person. She thrived on the camaraderie brought about by a meal spent more in discussion than consumption, and that only ever happened in Marbrook when it was time for supper.
Lenara’s nostrils suddenly flared as a fresh blast of warmth. The enticing smell of fresh bread, crusted to perfection, singed her nose with yeast-scent and heat, causing memories—both recent and barely-recalled—to bubble to her surface thoughts. Bread seemed to be the one uniting factor in her life.
She could remembered the smell from Frenter’s old hut; the old patriarch of the Saget River Village puttering around his tiny living quarters and humming some absent-minded tune as he stirred his famous tomato stew.
“The secret, dear child,” he had once confided in a much younger Lenara concerning his special recipe, “is letting people believe that there is a secret.”
No comments:
Post a Comment