[piosenniel]

Cook staves off a further attack upon her domain . . .

Word had passed to the far reaches of the Common Room. Like a quickly retreating tide, they had rushed back through the aisles, their feet pattering against the wooden floor until they reached the door to the kitchen. Curious at their departure, a number of the long time patrons followed along in their wake. Until at last, there was a large crowd eddying about the door.

‘What’s going on?’ asked one of those in back, watching as two of the lasses cracked open the door a bit and peeked in.

‘It’s that tall fellow with the harp,’ began one. ‘Seems he’s been washing the pots and pans,’ added the other. They both giggled and turned round to face the eager group. ‘He’s managed to clean the pots, I think,’ one of them went on. ‘But, he’s also managed to get loads of water on Cook’s floor! And last I saw, he was bent over wiping some of it up with one of her best towels!’

There was a collective gasp, and thinking better of intruding on Cook in her plight, the swirl of lookers-on rushed out again into the far reaches of the Common Room. Distancing themselves from any fall out should Cook explode.

~*~

Cook, for her part, was actually doing quite well with the situation. It had confirmed for her that one of the main problems with Big Folk was that their brains being so far from their arms and legs, there was no feed back on the actions they attempted. Clumsy oafs! To be forgiven somewhat on account of their deficiency.

She snapped her fingers at the two horrified girls who were helping out in the kitchen. White faced, they drew near, wondering what she wanted them to do. The man loomed a giant in their eyes, but the fear of displeasing Cook steeled their backbones. They gave an audible sigh of relief as she instructed them to make a platter of ham and pickle sandwiches and fill a bowl with mushroom barley soup.

‘And a “Hark!” to you, Master Hearpwine!’ she said in a firm voice, planting one foot on the now wet and dirty hand towel. She handed him a dry towel and ‘tut-tut’-ed him as he made to use it for further wiping up. ‘Just dry your hands, dear,’ she said, speaking pleasantly as to one of her sons when they were younger. ‘Your work here is more than done by my reckoning. And an admirable job it was,’ she added. ‘These nice girls here have made you some lunch.’ She pointed to where Ginger and her companion stood at the now open kitchen door. ‘You just follow them out to one of the tables and sit yourself down and enjoy your food.’ She nodded at the girls to lead him on out. ‘And Ginger . . . you be sure to get him a mug of ale . . .’

She stood with a pleasant smile pasted on her face until the door had closed behind the trio . . .