Page 68 of Sunder

Orma had to retreat to the kitchen.

The Brum was in his garden, unconcerned now that it was the appropriate time for him to be there according to his whims. Perhaps she should have been out with him, but she could not bear to watch any longer.

Her trunk had been simple enough. Strong arms and even stronger wings had it up into the bedchamber with no fuss at all.

The bed was entirely a different matter, with more parts needing to be deconstructed and set back together again.

Then the old bed was moved to another room—because Athan was correct, and there were others.

Empty rooms.

She’d caught only a glimpse before her withdrawal, but she’d seen it clear enough. No furniture, only a few crates on either side of the window. The shutters were closed, and the room was dreary with nothing to soften the wooden walls.

There was not time for questions, not when there were men waiting about to finish their work and be off to their next job.

Athan was helping. Or... trying to help. He was involved, at least, and his advice was met with grunts and a few nods, so perhaps it might be considered assistance?

All she knew was that she didn’t like to see her bed in pieces. Didn’t like to see the decorative panels arranged out of order.

Not only that.

Exposed.

Like little bits of her were out on a cart for any to see that might walk by.

Better she be in the kitchen. Staring at the stove and wondering how one worked such a thing, and if she could manage a pot of tea before Athan was finished with his helping.

Not that they needed more. Or that it would be done properly, most especially compared to what her mother could provide.

But she didn’t make it either, did she? She had only to have one of the servants fetch anything she liked, and it would appear with no bother at all.

She could sit down. Just wait for it all to be over with and ask Athan to make her something. But that felt... wrong.

She huffed. Hovered a hand over one of the burners and waited to feel the heat. There was some, and she dipped a littlelower. She wasn’t so foolish that she should risk burning herself, but filling a kettle was simple enough. Or would have been. Except that she pulled on the lid and it refused to budge, which meant she had to squint and wonder and poke at it until she realised there was a small lever and a hinge.

The tap she mastered with no fuss.

Then there was the pot. Washed and dried from earlier, so that was no trouble. Didn’t even have to poke about the cupboards like she did for the tea leaves themselves.

Rows of small canisters made up the first shelf, neatly labelled. Or she thought they were until she actually tried to read any of them. The text was so small she had to hold them up to the light, and most were an assortment of herbs. Or... maybe they weren’t? She resorted to opening a few and bringing them to her nose to sniff until one smelled like it belonged in a teapot.

One smelled particularly appealing. Sweet without being cloying. Rich and welcoming.

She thought vaguely about stimulants and... had he said anything else? It did not smell like what he’d brewed that morning, but it intrigued her enough to be worth risking.

Athan would likely be horrified, but she wanted him to see her effort. She nibbled at her lip, wondering if she ought to spoon the leaves into the pot or just shimmy them inside.

Which felt reasonable. Until a great many fell on the counter instead, so she had to manoeuvre them back into the jar while darting her attention to the door and hoping the thud she heard upstairs did not mean they’d finished just yet.

She stared at the kettle, hovering her hands around it. It was... warm. But it needed to be more than that, yes? How did one heat a stove? Was it like a hearth? Only with pipes and burners and a door. That had a latch. And a handle. For opening?

She frowned, tugging at it with little intention behind it. If it opened, she would peer inside and see how it functioned. If it didn’t, she’d leave it alone. Let the water warm as slowly as it pleased, so she might still claim that she tried.

But she could admit her curiosity, so she pulled a little harder, the whole things opening with a creak of a hinge in need of oiling, a far greater warmth emitting from its opening.

She frowned at the contents. Were those the remnants of logs turned to ash or... coals? They glowed with friendly embers. She should add to it. Most certainly if they were going to have a hot supper. Not that she knew what sorts of meals Athan preferred, and perhaps he liked smaller fares. Dried fish and thinly sliced vegetables with bread rather than hash. Or even those little pastries that Orma liked so well, even if they showered her dress with crumbs no matter how daintily she bit them.

She was hungry; she realised with a belated sort of awareness. Her nibbles back at home seemed a long time ago, and she frowned down at her stomach, patting it reprovingly. “I’m not sure what you think I can do about it,” she murmured to herself. “I can’t even get the tea going properly.” She frowned down at the kettle, willing it to heat. Then gave up and poked through the cupboards. There were more jars, some large enough to require scoops attached to the sides, but they revealed only various powders. Which might be food, if one knew what to do with them, but she certainly didn’t.

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