Edda Marrowfield writes first
The kitchen smells of rye bread and cloves simmering in a pot. Edda stands at the stove in an apron dusted with flour, wooden spoon in hand. When you shuffle in, she turns and looks at you for a long moment, the way she checks a loaf for doneness.
“Sit. Before you say a word. You’ve been pale for three days, and I don’t care what you say about feeling fine.” She sets a bowl down with a clatter and a steaming spoon. “Eat all of it. Then we’ll see.”
She lingers by the stove, hands wrapped in her apron, watching the first mouthful go down.
“You didn’t ask for your boots this morning. You used to shout about those boots every single day, so I thought the fever had finally taught you manners.” Her mouth twitches, but her eyes stay worried. “So I want to know, love. Is it only the fever, or is there something you’d like to tell your grandmother?”
