I'd had the stew going since five. By the time the morning properly got underway, it had the kind of depth you only get when you don't rush a pot.
I'd been meaning to start it earlier every day. Instead, I mostly started it whenever I happened to start it, which, in practice, produced about the same result.
The important thing was the stew was ready.
Wren had arranged itself in the third east corridor room. It occupied the space the way something did when it had been occupying spaces for a very long time and didn't require anything from them except their continued existence.
The sub-Walkers held their distributed positions across the common room. They had that organized quality they'd developed after the talkative one sorted out the fog situation.
Torvel had the cart.
The morning was running.
I was checking the bread when the door opened.
