Chapter 1639: Midwinter In The Briar (Part Two)

The cottage’s main room was already full of the rich, layered smells of a meal that had been coming together since well before midday. The hearth at the cottage’s center held a low, careful fire meant for simmering, frying, and the gentle, slow braising that Amahle favored when cooking for the people who had made it past the thorns outside to find the gentle heart the thorns protected.

Jacques was crouched in front of the fire on the broad coil of his tail with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and a long iron paddle in one hand. There was a look of deep concentration on his scaled face that was every bit as intense as the look he wore while concocting potions of a potentially explosive nature.

A wide cast-iron pan sat on a grate above the coals, and in the pan, a thick layer of catfish fillets was sizzling gently in a pool of butter and rendered fat. The crust on them had been spiced before they’d ever touched the pan, and Amahle could smell the combination of spicy red pepper, floral black pepper, and bright, fresh thyme, all layered together in the way only Jacques managed, producing a particular bright heat that made your eyes water without burning your tongue.

Ever since Heila’s visit to the Briar, Jacques had been working hard to temper the heat of his dishes, bringing forward the more subtle flavors of herbs and spices, and after several months of effort, his signature dish seemed close to reaching perfection.

The Sandbox Witch glanced briefly over his shoulder at the sound of Amahle returning from the porch, and his tail thumped the floor lightly as he realized she was still alone.

"De moss is glowin’ early tonight, maman," he said, easing one of the fillets with the edge of his paddle to check the underside. "Sista’ be here soon?"

"The moss ain’t glowin’ any earlier than it should, sugar," Amahle said as she wandered over to the hearth, using one of her long, spider-like appendages to pull the lid off a simmering pot of gumbo while she leaned forward with a wooden spoon to test the flavor. "It’s just the sun settin’ extra early. Ya’ll’re just antsy for her to come home. Don’t you worry none, I can feel her at the edges of the Briar. She’ll be here before we put it all on the table, I expect."

"Mmm," Jacques said as he turned the fillet. The crust on the bottom was the deep, perfect mahogany of perfectly cooked spices, just a hair or two short of starting to burn. "Good. Sista been gone too long."

Mmm-hmm," a feminine voice chimed in from the far side of the room where the second member of Amahle’s coven sat next to the window.

Saini sat on a low cushion at her own little work-table, her small hooved feet tucked neatly to one side beneath the hem of a long, cream colored skirt. The skirt was cinched at her narrow waist with a wide leather belt holding half a dozen pouches of trinkets and herbs, and above it she wore a snug, long-sleeved bodice of dusty rose linen that left her throat bare and her wrists free to work.

Her fur, where it showed at her hands and at the slender curve of her neck, was a fine warm gold so soft it took the lantern light like sunlight on a wheat field, deepening to a richer russet where it disappeared beneath her clothes and, Amahle knew, ran in a sweep of red-brown down her back to the short, plush tail that lay curled neatly against the cushion behind her.

Her long ears were the same warm tawny gold as her face but lined inside with a paler cream, and they hung soft and floppy past the line of her jaw. They moved sometimes without her noticing, swiveling at sounds she heard before anyone else did. The leftmost one was, at this very moment, turned just slightly toward the window, listening for the slightest sound of someone approaching through the gloom.

Saini’s large, dark eyes were fixed entirely on the wide, shallow dish of cream in front of her. She had been whipping it by hand for the better part of a quarter-hour, the wooden whisk turning in steady, even circles that had thickened the cream into soft, glossy peaks. Beside the dish was a small pile of candied pecans she’d spent the morning glazing, a clay jar of dark molasses, and a wooden tray on which she had been arranging thin slices of preserved pawpaw fruit in a careful spiral that started at the center and worked outward like the rings of a tree.

She had been working on this dessert since before sunrise this morning, and it wasn’t finished yet, but that was fine. She wasn’t in a hurry, and it was more important that each piece was perfect than that it was finished early to look pretty on the table when the person she was making it for wasn’t even home yet.

Amahle smiled as she finished adjusting the seasoning of the gumbo, setting a lid back on it before walking over to examine the Rose Witch’s work. There wasn’t any witchcraft in the cooking tonight, but as always, Saini had a way of making beautiful things look effortless, much the way she looked enchantingly beautiful within minutes of climbing out of her hammock each morning.

"Lookin’ fine, sugar," Amahle said warmly as she reached out to sample a bit of the sweet cream Saini had been whipping. "Tasting even better."

"Mmhm," Saini said, pausing long enough to test the texture of the cream between her fingers. "Almost," she murmured, reaching over to the clay jar of molasses on the table to drizzle a little bit more over the cream before she returned to the whipping.

"You gonna fuss wit’ dat all night?" Jacques asked from the hearth, the corner of his mouth twitching as he watched his sister work. "Or you plan on lettin’ our sista eat it some time before the next longest night come around?"

Saini’s ears flicked back as she looked at her ’little brother’ with a dangerous glint in her dark, chocolaty eyes that most women of the Red Tailed Clan never managed. But unlike her blood kin, this beauty had thorns, and they were sharp enough to pierce even Jacques’ scaly hide.

"I’m gonna fuss with it till it’s done," she said in a tone that was sweeter than molasses. "You worry ’bout your fish, Little Brother, don’t be botherin’ ’bout me none."

"My fish is art," Jacques protested. "But it don’ take all day, cher," he added.

"Your fish is dinner," Saini countered. "An’ if y’all don’ watch it, it’ll go swimmin’ away in all that butter."

"Ain’t dat’ much butter," Jacques grumbled as he pulled the pan off the fire, gently turning his fish so the spices coating the delicate filets didn’t burn. "Dis’ is an ancient recipe, non? Dat’ make it art an’ culture all in one."

"Catfish ain’t culture, it’s supper. It’s been supper since before I was born," she said. "Just ’cause the recipe’s ancient, don’t make it art. Beauty makes it art, an’ that ain’t the same as what I’m doin’ here."

"Enough," Amahle chided gently as her crimson eyes swiveled towards the window where the faintest bit of lantern light had appeared at the edge of the clearing where she’d built a home for her coven. "Y’all only have a few minutes to finish up before she’s home," Amahle said warmly.

"Y’all wouldn’t want to have your hands too full for huggin’ when she comes through that door now, would you?" Amahle teased as she began pulling down plates and serving dishes from a nearby shelf.

It was months earlier than she’d expected to see the last remaining member of her coven, and Amahle couldn’t help but wonder how the Blackberry Witch had made such excellent time returning from the western mountains... And if that speed meant she’d found trouble beyond the ones the Mother of Thorns already knew about.

But they’d have answers soon enough... once they finished supper, that was. Just as Saini had said, some things were too important to rush, and welcoming the scattered members of her coven home tonight was far more important than anything that might be happening beyond the safety of the Briar’s thorns.