The kitchen was in its usual rhythm, a rhythm that never truly changed no matter what storms brewed beyond its walls or within the hearts of those who worked inside it. Fire cracked beneath large iron pots, the flames licking at their undersides while steam curled upward in soft clouds that clung to the ceiling. The scent of boiling meat filled the air so thickly it seemed to settle into the skin. Vivienne’s hands were submerged in a basin of water as she washed plates one after another. Her movements were slow, almost mechanical, as though her body was present but her mind was elsewhere.Around her, voices rose and fell, some light with conversation, others sharp with instructions from Honoria, who moved through the kitchen like a commander on a battlefield, ensuring that every task was completed without error. The boys carried sacks of grain across the room with strained shoulders, balancing trays and stirring pots, the girls moved between stations, and outside, through the open ar
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