By evening, the two cottages came alive again.
The space between them had been turned into a cozy dining area. A makeshift table and benches stood beneath hanging lanterns, their soft glow stretching over the packed earth.
They chose to eat here, not in the waystation's main hall. After all, it was a family meal, not a caravan feast, and the women preferred the quiet of their own yard.
Marla and Eira, with Shayra's enthusiastic "help," cooked in the compact kitchen of the women's cottage. From inside came the sound of clattering pots, raised voices, and something that hissed suspiciously on the stove.
Tristan glanced toward the noise. "Are you sure she's helping?"
Shannon didn't look up from sharpening a knife. "Define helping."
Marla's voice rang out, sharp and exasperated. "No, that's salt, not sugar!"
A pause. Then Shayra's bright laugh. "Are you sure? It looks the same!"
Tristan hid a grin. Shannon pinched the bridge of his nose. "I rest my case."
