Hilary paused. There was a presence in the room. She felt for a sense of what it could be, but there was nothing obvious and nothing malevolent. She returned to peeling her carrot. “They say you should just scrub carrots, but these are old and robust and I think I’ll take the time to peel them,” she said and felt that presence take notice.

There was a lull with the hiss of the peeler over the fresh, vivid carrot mingling with the quiet chuckle of the wood stove. Hilary finished peeling the handful of carrots. “The farm shop had some good veggies today,” she said. There was no response from the presence. “But I wondered how many were genuinely home-grown and how many were brought in and put in rustic baskets to look right.” She kept her knives sharp and the carrot sliced easily. “But these are lovely and fresh. They feel like they came out of the ground this morning.” She took her time, trying to get a sense of what was present and where it was hiding, but it was distressingly vague. “So I guess the carrots might be local.” She slid the chopped carrots into a bowl, popping one last chunk into her mouth for the sweet crunch before reaching for the sweet potato. “But they must have flown this in. They don’t grow sweet potatoes in Yorkshire.” Hilary reached for the peeler. “I don’t usually bother with sweet potatoes, but this looked so fresh.”

There was a rattle of rain on the window. “It’s a wonderful vegetable for soup,” Hilary said, dropping the parings into the scraps bucket. “It’s sweet, but not too sweet, with a full flavor that will absorb the other flavors and amplify them, and it has just the right amount of starch.” The sweet potato crunched as she diced it up. “I don’t have to cut it up fancy,” she added. “It’s just for soup so I need it small rather than neat.” She could feel the presence edging closer. “I’d share a taste, but you can’t eat it raw.” She added the softer orange chunks to the brightness of the carrot. “Now for the parsnips.”

The wind moaned through the chimney and Hilary could feel the presence slowly getting closer as she worked. “I’ve got the soda bread I made at lunchtime on the counter. That will be perfect with a nice bowl of soup. Practically anything can go into soup.” She made short work of peeling the parsnips. “But not everything should go into a soup. At least, not all piled in together. You have to balance the ingredients for a good soup.” The parsnips were thick and sturdy and crisp under the knife. “These must be local and I think they’ve had the frost on them. That makes parsnips sweeter. They used to make them into cakes during the war.” Hilary added the diced parsnips to the bowl.

The presence was definitely intrigued and as its interest grew, the presence was stronger and behind Hilary and to the left, near the cellar door. Hilary pulled over two large onions. “These are country onions if ever I saw them,” she said. “The carrots, sweet potato and parsnips are all sweet. You need to balance that. I don’t think onions are sour or bitter, but they’re sort of anti-sweet.” She could feel the amusement from the presence. “They have a flavor all of their own.” She wrinkled her nose as she started peeling them. “I shall be crying by the end of it, I can tell. These are massive.”

The presence was drawing nearer, still invisible, but stronger than ever as it watched Hilary struggle with the onions. “I should have worn goggles,” she said, wiping her watering eyes with the back of her hand. “Or held a bit of bread in my mouth.” She tipped the first chopped onion into the bowl with the other vegetables. “I’m going to be a wreck by the time I finish this. But the stronger they are, the better the flavor. I’m not going for a delicate soup here. I want something to stick to my ribs.” Blinking through the tears, Hilary roughly chopped the second onion and added the final vegetable to the bowl. “Right, that’s the veggies done.”

She stood gracefully and filled a kettle at the deep, porcelain sink, carefully not turning around towards the presence. “If I was any sort of cook, I’d have home-made stock, but I’m not so it’s stock cubes and hot water.” She placed the kettle on the stove and set a large pan next to it. “People say you can make great stock from peelings, but what with storing and straining and messing around, I’d rather buy something from the supermarket.” She felt the question coming from beside her. “I’ll let the kettle boil and add the stock cubes later. Let’s get the vegetables cooking first.”

A generous splash of canola oil was added to the pan. “People think that a soup can be made with dumping ingredients in water, but you get a better result if you take a few moments to soften the veggies first.” Hilary eyed the oil and, as it was flowing freely, tipped the bowl of chopped vegetables into the pan. The hissing sizzle made the presence jump back for a moment and then lean forward. “Besides, a decent oil will make the flavorings stick.” Hilary grabbed a wooden spoon and gave the pan a quick stir. “You need a little oil to bring the taste out.” She carefully didn’t look at the presence. “How do you feel about garlic?”

“I likes it,” a small soft voice said. “I likes it plenty.”

Hilary reached for the garlic powder. “Then I’ll add plenty. It’ll add a nice contrast to the parsnips and sweet potato.” She stirred the pan again and added generous shakes of garlic powder. “I like chopped or crushed garlic for a stir fry or a stew, but garlic powder sticks better and flavors more in a soup or a dressing.” She stirred the garlic through, enjoying the scented steam from the pan as the vegetables and garlic mingled. “And spices. Do you like spices?”

“That’s rich and rare, mistress,” the voice said softly.

Hilary risked a quick glance. Standing next to her at the stove was a small human-like creature, about the size of an eight year old child, with lumpy features smeared with dirt and a torn, sack like dress. Her hair was tangled and her feet were bare but she peered, intrigued, at the pan. “What should I call you?” Hilary asked.

“I is Bracken, in general,” she said. “Are you going to use pepper?”

“I’m going to add pepper, of course,” Hilary said. “And there’s salt in the stock cubes. But it needs a little more. Parsnips always drink up the warmer spices so I’m adding cumin and turmeric, and plenty of them.” She pulled the jars from spice rack. “The farm shop didn’t sell these, and they’re not from Yorkshire.” She strewed the spices thickly over the vegetables and stirred again before putting the spices back. “And a dash of chili powder.” Hilary added the spice sparingly. “I’m not so keen on chili, but it adds a little spark.” The heat of the pan and the juices of the vegetables released the fragrance of the spices and the aroma drifted around the room. Hilary breathed in deeply, enjoying the exotic scents now filling her plain Yorkshire kitchen before adding a final grind of warm black pepper. She glanced quickly at Bracken before looking back at the pan. “You don’t see many brownies around.”

Bracken shifted nervously. “I isn’t happy in my position,” she said primly. “I seeking a different place.”

“I don’t know if I could pay you enough,” Hilary said. She crossed the kitchen to the row of cupboards. “Or I’d be happy to take you in.”

“You has a pleasant establishment,” Bracken said. “I is not looking for top wages as I is learning to cook.”

Hilary pulled out the jar of lentils. “Well, there’s no rush for you to leave,” she said, dumping a large scoop of red lentils into the pan and stirring vigorously. “Most people say that you should add the lentils after the stock, but I think it helps get the flavors into the lentils if you stir them in the oil. It helps the spices and garlic powder to stick.”

“My wages is a safe place to sleep, my foods and drink and a glass of milk every day,” Bracken said. She took a deep breath at her own daring. “And a coin at Christmas.”

“Hmmm.” Hilary kept stirring, turning the lentils through the softening vegetables and spice filled oil. “I could pay that,” she said. “And clothes for your back, just to be decent, and time off on Sunday.”

“That is a big wage and hard to earn,” Bracken said nervously.

“I’ll want you to keep the cottage clean,” Hilary said. “And some help with the baking.”

“I does learn to cook well, mistress,” Bracken said earnestly.

“Now it’s time for the water and stock cubes,” Hilary said. The kettle on the top of the stove was steaming and hissed and spat wildly as Hilary added it to the pan followed by two stock cubes. “And some herbs.” She smiled at Bracken. “These are from Yorkshire and I know that because I grew them myself.” She added a good sprinkling of dried parsley, oregano and coriander. “Spices go in with oil but dried herbs go in with water.” She gave a final stir, scraping across the bottom of the pan to dislodge the stuck lentils and then slid a lid on top. “Now it needs to simmer for a while.” She pulled the pan to the edge of the hotplate. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or would you prefer milk?” she asked.

Before Bracken could answer, there was a loud banging, a heavy fist thumping hard into the door. Bracken started. “That may be my former position,” she whispered.

Hilary looked down at the creature. Unlovely as she was, there was a sweetness about her and it seemed wrong that she should be flinching. “Stay there, Bracken,” she said and unlocked the door. “Who’s there?”

“You have something of mine!” an imperious voice rang out.

Hilary opened the door. Standing outside, tousled by the evening breeze, was something that looked like a man. He was tall and lean, looming over her, and his shoulder length dark hair was blowing around his thin face. Bright blue eyes bored into her. “You have something of mine,” he snapped.

“I have a guest,” Hilary said, “With all that entails.”

“You are new to this cottage and this domain,” the stranger said. “You don’t understand the ways of this place. Return my property or face consequences.”

“I is seeking a new situation,” Bracken squeaked from behind Hilary. “There is cooking in this place.”

“That’s enough!” He strode forward and there was a flash as he hit something invisible but entirely solid and collapsed.

“This is Rowan Cottage and it’s always been a witch’s cottage,” Hilary said, leaning forward. “Do you think anyone else could live here? And I do not tolerate any of the Fair Folk striding in without invitation.” She turned to Bracken. “What should I call him.”

“He is called Lord Peregrine by the Shadow Folk,” Bracken said nervously. “That is how I addresses him.”

Lord Peregrine staggered shakily to his feet. “You are a hag?”

“That’s rather a personal question,” Hilary said absently as she concentrated. A glowing light slid around the door frame and encircled Lord Peregrine. “I prefer the term Wise Woman. And Bracken stays with me now.” She could feel the tension leave Bracken but didn’t look around as she held the enchantment.

Lord Peregrine glowered. “You compel me,” he snarled.

“Just a little,” Hilary said. “I want to be clear. You do not come after me, not now in my own place or at any other time.”

“But you have something of mine,” Lord Peregrine grumbled.

“I has taken a new situation,” Bracken said, her voice trembling a little at her audacity in speaking. “As there is cooking here.”

Lord Peregrine looked over to the stove. “I can tell,” he said. “I still want compensation.”

“Compensation for a choice that wasn’t yours to make?” Hilary asked, raising an eyebrow. “Enter this night and be welcome this night.” The light around the door faded. “Come in and we can discuss terms.”

Lord Peregrine stepped warily into the shabby kitchen. “This has changed since I was last here.”

Hilary carefully grabbed the kettle with a potholder and refilled it. “When was that?” she asked. She set the kettle back on the center of the stove and then lifted the lid on the soup. The warm aroma that was already filling the room intensified. “You have to keep stirring this,” Hilary told Bracken. “Or the lentils stick to the bottom. Would you please help?”

“Yes, mistress,” Bracken said shyly and took the wooden spoon. It was a stretch for her until Hilary brought over a stool for Bracken to stand on. “Thank you, mistress.” She shot a scared, defiant look at Lord Peregrine. “I is cooking.”

“Those spices from distant lands and roots from the local fields make an unexpected blend,” Lord Peregrine murmured.

“Please take a seat,” Hilary said, waving a hand towards the long kitchen table. “You know that you cannot ask much. Bracken has her own mind.”

Lord Peregrine sank into a kitchen chair, his eyes fixed on the pan of soup. “If I can eat a bowl of soup, fresh and hot at this table, then I will be satisfied,” he said.

Hilary thought for a moment. “That’s agreeable,” she said. “Please keep stirring the soup, Bracken, and I’ll set the table.” She pulled bowls and plates from the cupboards. “I didn’t realize that there were the Fair Ones so local,” she said. She rinsed the earthenware teapot with hot water at the sink and set it on the counter next to the stove. “I knew that there were strong currents of power here, but it’s unexpected to have two guests, especially so soon after I moved here.”

“There are not many of us,” Lord Peregrine said, licking his lips as he kept his gaze on the soup. “And we struggle on with so many mortals.”

Hilary placed the bread on the table with the bread knife and pulled the butter from the fridge. She glanced at Lord Peregrine. Underneath his haughty bravado there was a weariness in him. She had felt the twisting of the currents when she first moved in, and now she could see that there was more work than she had expected. “I’m blessed by your presence,” she said.

Lord Peregrine’s thin lips twisted briefly in amusement. “These spices are costly. I have never scented such richness.”

“They’re not so expensive now,” Hilary said, pouring water from the boiling kettle over the black tea in the teapot. Are the vegetables soft, Bracken?”

“Yes, mistress,” Bracken said eagerly.

“Good, that means that it’s ready to eat.” Hilary smiled at the small creature. “Please sit at the table while I finish the meal.”

It took a few minutes to blend the soup and ladle generous helpings into the bowls, sprinkling with a little fresh parsley. The inexpensive, quick meal that Hilary had planned was obviously a feast for her guests and it felt humbling. She cut half a dozen slices from the loaf and sat down with her own bowl of soup. “Please eat,” she said. “There are more helpings in the pan if you’re hungry enough.” She poured tea into the mugs. “Help yourself to sugar.”

 The guests fell hungrily on the food, and all was quiet apart from the scrap of spoons, the murmur of the wood stove and the howl of the rising wind outside the cottage. Hilary found herself relaxing as the warmth from the spices filled her with each savory mouthful. The kitchen filled with contentment.

Lord Peregrine sighed, pushing away the faint remnants of his third bowl of soup and thickly buttering another slice of bread. “You are indeed a Wise Woman,” he said. “And I could use your aid with the currents of power that are so tangled at the moment.” He took a large bite of bread and butter. “But first I must ask you, now that you have Bracken here. Do you have room for a paying lodger?”

Hilary thought for a moment. It would be madness to invite one of the Fair Folk to live with her, especially as there was so much work to be done, and that was on top of her mundane work that paid the bills. But as the contentment in the kitchen wrapped around her with the scent of the soup, she sighed. The cottage was filled with empty rooms and the loneliness since she moved here was starting to bite. She watched Lord Peregrine carefully wiping the bread around his bowl to pick up the last traces of the soup. And it was such a pleasure to cook for appreciative appetites. “I will happily accept you as a paying lodger for now,” she said. “We can work out the details in the morning.” She stood and started collecting the bowls. “Tonight we have apple cake and cream for desert.” And the warmth of the kitchen seemed almost overflowing.

Also submitted to Royal Road