### The Kitchen — Closing Hour
The ladle had gone still.
Naro Hageh stood at the basin with her broad back to the dining room, her thick forearms submerged in the tepid water, scrubbing the last of the evening's grease from the iron pot. The kitchen was a low, timber-heavy space that had absorbed ten thousand meals into its grain, and the candles on the wall—three of them, burning down to nubs—threw a wavering, honey-colored light across the scored worktable and the hanging herbs. The scent of rendered fat and rosemary still clung to the air, warm and heavy, the ghost of the pork stew she had served two hours ago to the last table of road-weary traders.
She pulled her hands from the water and wiped them across her skirt.
