They returned through the morning crowds—vendors calling out their wares, the smell of breakfast cooking mixed with perfume and magic, and overhead, enchanted carts flying past carrying deliveries to the upper districts.
Marron walked with purpose now, her mother's notebook tucked under one arm, the cream-colored bowl Millie had insisted she borrow carefully wrapped in cloth and held against her chest.
"You're planning something," Mokko observed.
"I'm always planning something."
"No, I mean you have that look. The one you get right before you do something ambitious and slightly terrifying."
Marron glanced at him. "Is it that obvious?"
"You're practically vibrating."
She laughed despite herself. "I need to make the soup. The real version, start to finish, with proper presentation. I need to practice it until I can do it in my sleep."
"That's four hours of cooking," Mokko pointed out.
"I know."
