She appeared in the doorway, cupping a hand around the candle flame. “And what is the room to the left?”
“It used to be the buttery and a sort of linen room.”
“What is it now?”
“Another larder and a sort of linen room. What use have I for full butts of wine?” He’d tried getting roaring drunk, years ago. Once. Loneliness only bit deeper, sank its fangs further, when there was no one to see or care how much his head ached afterwards.
“Indeed,” she murmured and disappeared again.
The stew bubbled merrily, only long enough to register the sound before she came back. He was beginning to believe his wife was the sort of person who never stilled until she slept. And probably not even then.
“You are extraordinarily well provisioned, husband,” she said when she returned.
“Konrad,” he grated.
