What the Rain Brings

I had set out five bowls. Five, because this time I intended to be sensible. Goldshire’s inn was busy enough, and the innkeeper had let me use only the little stove. ‘No fire spells in my kitchen,’ he’d said. As though the apple-pie incident hadn’t been months ago.

Outside, the rain began with the determination of an offended elemental. The door opened, and a patrol from Stormwind ushered in two sodden travellers. Behind them came a woman with a basket that cheeped beneath its cloth. I moved the bowls closer together. It doesn’t help. But it makes you look as though you have a plan.

Mira was drying a map by the window. ‘You’re counting,’ she observed. ‘I’m assessing the portions.’ She looked into the pot, then at me. We had known each other too long for me to spare her the truth: my stew wouldn’t stretch to everyone.

At the next table, two men were arguing about the road to Westfall. One carried a hammer, the other a sword. Both sounded hungrier than they sounded angry. Mira asked who had anything to eat. The man with the sword produced an onion. The man with the hammer produced another. For a moment, they had something in common.

Then the basket landed on the kitchen table. Beneath the cloth lay four eggs and three very lively chicks. ‘Only the eggs,’ the woman said sternly. I nodded. Of all the instructions I’ve ever received in a kitchen, that was the most sensible.