[Envinyatar]

The bustle of the evening had worn down to a trickle. Most people were done eating, save for those two new men who’d come in late and been served by Miss Rowan. Jack had made the rounds of the tables, topping off the pitchers of ale and filling the teapots with fresh, hot water.

Jack slipped into the kitchen, his tray bearing a full load of mugs and a few bowls precariously stacked one upon the other. Mistress Cela, he’d noted, had come out of the kitchen with Will and gone to visit with the woman who’d broken her leg. Primrose…that was her name.

He set his load of dishes on the cupboard, and began carefully to load them into the big pan of hot, soapy water. And had Mistress Cela been in the room that was as far as he might have gone. But seeing as she was occupied in the other room, he decided to try his hand at the washing up.

‘Now just you take a deep breath, Jack m’boy,’ he admonished himself. ‘Not that tricky a job. Just keep your mind on what you’re doing and your fingers wrapped tight about the plates and mugs.’ He talked himself into an easy sort of rhythm.

Swish and swipe; swish and swipe . . . and dip plate; dip the mug . . . in the hot rinse water . . . carefully, carefully stack’em on the drainboard . . .

In a shorter time than he had thought, the washing up was got done. Jack stepped back and admired his handiwork. He picked up one of the dish towels hanging on a peg by the sink, but stopped short of taking up a bowl to dry. ‘Sure and that’s where my luck turned with the last dishes I did.’ He shook out the towel and spread it carefully over the stack of cleaned dishes.

Jack eased his lanky frame back out through the kitchen door and sat himself down at a little out of the way table. He’d brought with him a cup of strong, sweet tea from the kitchen. And now he sat contentedly sipping at it as he gazed about the room.