The Hag’s rough wood table stood on four legs carved like undersea monsters—oversized, sleek fish with cat-teeth and frond-like protuberances flowing out of their gills. Similar curly fern fronds decorated the bare part of the table—of which there was very, very little. Nearly every inch of that table—and it took up three quarters of the hut’s single room—was bedecked with pies baked into the shapes of swans, twelve-layered savory cakes with butter oozing out of fillings that looked full to bursting with sausage meat, brussels sprouts, fried leeks, and black mushrooms. And the smells! Truffle oil mixed with baked dough, undercut with the sharp, garlicky smell of seared meat seasoned with fresh thyme.
The tankards frothed with mead. The sliced vegetables glistened, bursting with juices.
K
