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Lithmîrë and the pot of salve
Cook dipped down for a moment and fished about in the basket she’d set at her feet. Somewhere, near the bottom she supposed, was something she had been waiting for the opportune moment to bring out. ‘Oh, I know it’s in here somewhere,’ came the muffled and slightly exasperated voice beneath the edge of the table.
Her hand made purchase on the rim of the pot (it had slipped under the two towels she’d wrapped the flask of tea in). ‘There we go,’ she said shoving her bonnet back into place as she straightened up. With a small nod and an encouraging smile, she scooted the pot across the narrow distance that separated them.
‘Now, please don’t think me too forward, Master Lithmîrë,’ she said, gesturing that he should open the pot. ‘I couldn’t help but notice earlier that your hand looked like it had been burnt. And a while ago, from the scarring. My late husband was a soapmaker. When we were first married there was an accident. He was boiling down the mixture and he slipped from the stool he was standing on at the kettle’s edge. My stars! What a burn he got on his arm; the one that slipped in. Anyways, to make a long story shorter, I had to cobble up a number of salves and lotions to help him out along the way. Couldn’t heal it up, of course. The lye water and hot grease had burnt too deeply. But it did ease up the pain of it and kept the scars from making the limb so stiff.’
Cook gave resigned sigh as she surveyed the scars on the Elf’s face and arm. ‘Wish you’d come through Bywater sooner; that it hadn’t gotten so bad as it must be by now.’ She cocked her head at him and hesitated, wondering how he would take her next question. ‘Are you using tincture of poppy in your tea?’
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