Page 116 of Commander’s Mate
My smile faded.
“Yeah.”
We stood in the little galley with two kinds of grief between us.
Mine uncertain.
His enormous.
Neither needing a speech.
I nudged his arm.
“Tell me something she cooked badly.”
He looked horrified.
“My mother was an excellent cook.”
“Everyone makes something badly.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He thought.
“Keshal.”
“What is that?”
“A fermented root stew.”
“Sounds bad already.”
“It is excellent.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My mother believed more spice corrected fermentation.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
I laughed again.
He did too.
Quietly.
That was still rare enough that I wanted to collect the sound.
He put the second sandwich on a plate.
It looked edible.
We cut it in half.
