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Under the direction of Granny Greenhill, Prim and Rowan had managed several large skillets of eggs scrambled with bits of ham along with stacks of toast from what day old loaves they’d found in the pantry. Dishes of butter, pots of jams and honey were quickly assembled onto serving trays.
Under the weight of the loaded trays, the two servers made their slow way from the kitchen into the common room, just as the Shiriff concluded his little speech. ‘Begging your pardon Master Smallburrow, but maybe a nice, solid bit of breakfast might make us all think a bit clearer.’
Will and another of the lads were put to work pushing several tables together in the middle of the room. Rowan and Prim laid out the still hot skillets on thick pads, and positioned the baskets of toast near the butter, honey and jams. Pots of hot, steaming tea soon appeared, as well as towers of plates and cups and fistfuls of cutlery.
‘Help yourselves, good folks!’ Rowan cried out, though the words had scarce passed her lips as the first of the hungry patrons had started jostling along the laden table. Prim dished out generous scoops of fluffy eggs as Rowan poured out the tea.
As the Shiriff drew near her, reaching out for a cup of the hot brew, Rowan leaned in near and spoke quietly to him. ‘I think something strange happened yesterday,’ she confided, offering him the mug. ‘Miz Cela had some sort of unexpected news, bad news, I think – a letter that Hugh brought her early in the day. Now, she didn’t say a thing about it, but her face was white as a sheet as she read through it.’ She handed him a piece of toast she’d slathered with butter and a generous spoonful of blackberry jam, ‘And it was after that she seemed to go all to pieces. Not like her at all.’ She nodded her head slowly as she went on, emphasizing how “off” things had gotten. ‘Supper was late last evening . . . why, it nearly didn’t get served at all.’
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