Isla
IT'S LATE IN THE EVENING when the goldsmith returns home. Mye runs into his arms, clearly very happy to see him. He scoops her up in his arms, throwing her up and catching her again. Her bubbly laughter bounces off the walls, reverberating in the house. His overall is dirty and stained with grime, and his yellowed teeth flashes as he grins at his daughter.
Mistress isn't exactly pleased to see him, her conte is as indifferent as can be. She does send me a chilling look. Maybe she is still angry that he criticized her cooking earlier.
"Go make some soup for your master," she snaps.
I turn on my heels and enter the kitchen. My master indeed, I scoff. Not for long.
Making soup is not one of my specialties, at home Mother does most — if not all — of the cooking. But I do know the bas
