Chapter 4 Nightmares and Cat Hairs #2
Hazel rolled her eyes again. “We’ve been over this.
I’ve no desire to see the world. Not now, not ever.
The world has nothing to offer me I can’t have right here at home.
Plus, Larksridge has the added benefit of being safe.
You know as well as anyone that the same cannot be said about out there. ” She nodded toward the open window.
Connall shifted his weight uneasily, relieving the strain on his bad leg. His eyes darkened as though his mind had wandered somewhere else.
It was something Hazel knew far too much about, having traipsed through her dreams a few too many times recently.
“Anyway,” she broke the tension, “I am fine, truly. Now, if it’s alright with you, I’ve got to finish up upstairs so I can get going on today’s meals before the hungry townsfolk show up and burn the place down.”
“Aye,” he sighed, “I just want you to know, Hazel girl. You don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t like. I love having you here more than anything in the world. I just want you to be happy, be it here or somewhere else. The last thing your old man wants is to hold you back.”
“I know, Pa. I know.” She faked a smile. Not because he’d said anything wrong, but because he’d said everything right. They may not have had an easy life, but Connall would stop at nothing to see his daughter happy. Even if it was at his own expense.
She patted his arm with a gentle hand and kissed him on the cheek. “Love you. Duty calls.”
Hazel finished refreshing the unoccupied room and stood back to admire her handiwork.
She almost turned her back on the straw-stuffed mattress with its quilt folded neatly atop it when she noticed something peculiar.
It was a long, orange cat hair. She plucked it from the quilt, silently wondering when she’d last seen someone bring an animal companion for their stay, let alone a cat.
As she turned to leave the room, Hazel glimpsed herself in the mirror and paused. Her wild auburn curls were as unruly as ever despite the kerchief she’d tied them back with. Her pale, freckled skin was dusted with soot. Looking dreadful, Hazel Grace. What would Mother think of you now?
And what would her mother have thought of her?
Unmarried and with no prospects, Hazel lived a relatively solitary, ordinary life under her father’s roof.
She spent her days toiling in the garden behind the inn and helping with odds and ends around the tavern.
Twenty-seven years under her belt and nothing to show for it.
Pa wasn’t getting any younger, which was getting harder to ignore.
If Mother could see her now—wherever she was in the great beyond of the Otherrealm—Hazel hoped she appreciated how her daughter looked after the doting husband she’d left behind.
Regardless of her status in life. Regardless of whether she was far behind her similarly aged peers and deemed by most to be unsuccessful.
“I wish you were here,” Hazel whispered to no one, pulling her locket from beneath her blouse.
It was weird, missing someone she couldn’t remember.
Thankfully, Pa filled in the gaps, regaling Hazel with stories otherwise lost to the fog of passing time.
But sometimes, she wondered if every memory was fabricated, something Connall had wrapped in a delicate package and handed to her.
None of them belonged to her. As though all the memories she’d made had been erased.
Her mind—much like the silver locket Connall had passed on to her on her sixteenth birthday—refused to open.
She was just a tot when her mother perished in childbirth. Hazel lost both her mother and sibling that day, and she often wondered what life would have been like were they still alive. Instead, all she had left was a useless silver locket hammered into the likeness of a quarter moon.
But she couldn’t change the past. So, Hazel left her wandering thoughts behind and descended to the work awaiting her in the kitchen.
Before long, the kitchen was overflowing with delicious aromas.
Hazel had prepared bowls of chopped leeks, turnips, potatoes, and carrots, along with a few small dishes of roughly chopped herbs.
She had grown to love this time, just her and the quiet of the kitchen—the calm before the proverbial storm.
The gentle thump of her knife chopping against the wooden cutting board, the crunch of the vegetables, the incredible smells guaranteed to emanate from the foods before they were cooked… It was like magic.
And if Hazel was honest, she felt like a bit of a witch herself when cooking, especially when preparing a soup or stew.
Perhaps it was a childish thing for a grown woman to enjoy, but sometimes she pretended she was crafting a brew or potion in the tavern’s giant iron cauldron.
After all, what was soup if not a potion to cure hunger?
But each time she had those thoughts, Hazel scolded herself; an adult woman shouldn’t be brewing imaginary potions in her father’s kitchen.
In another world, another time, maybe. However, since the Dampening, all but the simplest of spells were nullified by the Border and its wards.
Magic fell under an outright ban, even if the wards couldn’t reach it.
The Crown made it an act of treason to practice even the simplest, smallest practical magics.
But Hazel could pretend—that in itself wasn’t a crime.
She didn’t have access to real magic, anyway.
Her blood was ordinary—they called it pure, but she despised the term—which was a relief and certainly one less thing she had to worry about.
Though she had to admit she didn’t understand the fuss about magic.
Hazel grabbed a shank of venison from the back table and, using her sharpest knife, removed the tendons and trimmed the sinew from the dark red muscle.
It was a fresh kill; one she suspected the hunter had harvested that same morning.
Connall had likely tossed the man a few extra coins for his trouble.
Though they rarely had extra coin to spare.
After the venison, she added leeks, potatoes, carrots, and the herbs she’d chopped, along with a dash of salt and some whole peppercorns for flavor.
While the stew simmered, Hazel prepped a childhood staple: her late Nan’s sweetbread.
It was a pillowy, buttery dough baked to perfection and topped with a cinnamon and sugar mixture.
By dinner, the entire town is going to be lined up outside the door, begging for a plate.
Once everything was ready in the kitchen, Hazel stepped out back to toss some scraps aside in a crate for the farmers.
Nothing went to waste if they could help it.
Despite the seasons growing leaner and fewer farms continuing to raise livestock with each passing year, Farmer Albertsen still had a small hog farm just north of town, and his pigs loved food scraps of all kinds.
He stopped by twice a week to pick them up.
She tried to ignore her satchel sitting in the corner beside the back door. To pretend it wasn’t practically beckoning her to open it and take another look at the strange powder within. She pushed past it, finding herself released from its grip once outside.
Hazel next turned her attention to the spits, where Connall had skewered two hares and five hens.
Their skin was browning nicely and would be decadent and crispy by the midday meal.
She stoked the fire with some kindling, letting her mind wander.
Just before she turned to go back inside, Hazel caught a flash of orange out of the corner of her eye.
She turned just in time to catch the end of a cat’s tail disappearing behind the old smokehouse.
Glancing at the spits, Hazel hoped the little beast would keep his paws to himself, however unlikely.
Sighing, she shook her head and turned her back on the little scavenger she knew was waiting for her to disappear.
As she crossed the threshold, she couldn’t shake the ominous feeling climbing up her spine, as though she was being watched.
Her locket heated enough to garner her attention. She spared one more glance over her shoulder before going back inside, but no one was there.