The cottage's main room was already full of the rich, layered smells of a meal that had been coming together since well before midday. The hearth at the cottage's center held a low, careful fire meant for simmering, frying, and the gentle, slow braising that Amahle favored when cooking for the people who had made it past the thorns outside to find the gentle heart the thorns protected.
Jacques was crouched in front of the fire on the broad coil of his tail with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and a long iron paddle in one hand. There was a look of deep concentration on his scaled face that was every bit as intense as the look he wore while concocting potions of a potentially explosive nature.
