By late afternoon, the rain had stopped, leaving behind a heavier, damp fog that pressed against the windows. In the kitchen, the air was thick and heavy with the smell of the stew. It had simmered for six hours. The tough, leathery beef had surrendered to the low heat, breaking down into tender shreds. The potatoes had dissolved slightly, thickening the broth into a rich, glossy gravy.
Beatrice took a wooden spoon, dipped it into the pot, and blew on it. She tasted it. She closed her eyes. It wasn't a masterpiece: it lacked pepper, it lacked fresh butter, and it lacked a good wine to deglaze the pot. But it was hot. It was rich. It tasted of survival; it tasted deeply, fundamentally real.
She found a heavy ceramic bowl in the cupboards. She wiped the dust out of it with a cloth and ladled the stew into it. The broth was a dark mahogany, dotted with the pale yellow of potatoes and the orange flecks of carrot. The steam rose in thick, aromatic plumes.
She walked out of the kitchen.
She found Arthur in the dilapidated dining room. The room was massive, dominated by a long mahogany table that could seat thirty. Arthur sat at the very end of it, dwarfed by the empty chairs, staring out the window at the gray fog. He looked up when she entered. His expression was a mask of cold indifference.
"I told you not to bother me," he said.
Beatrice ignored him. She walked the length of the table, her boots clicking softly against the hardwood floor. She stopped next to his chair and set the bowl down in front of him. She placed a dull silver spoon beside it.
"Eat," she said.
Arthur looked at the bowl. The steam curled around his face. His stomach clenched so hard it physically ached, but he kept his face impassive. "I didn't ask for this."
"I don't care," Beatrice replied, crossing her arms. She stood there unmoving, casting a shadow over him. "You let me stay. This is my payment. You will eat it."
Arthur scoffed, a dry, bitter sound. "You think you can come in here, boil some rotten vegetables, and play savior? You think this changes anything?"
"I don't think it changes the world," Beatrice said, her voice dropping, losing its sharp edge. She sounded tired. "I think it changes the fact that you haven't eaten a hot meal in a month. I think it stops you from freezing from the inside out. Eat the stew, Your Grace. If it poisons you, you won't have to look at me anymore."
Arthur's eyes snapped up to hers. She didn't flinch. She wasn't intimidated by his title, his anger, or his ruin. She was just a woman who had spent six hours fighting an iron pot, and she wasn't leaving until he ate.
Slowly, deliberately, to show her how little he cared, Arthur picked up the spoon. He looked down at the dark broth. He expected slop; he expected the bitter, salty taste of ruined meat and burnt flour. He scooped up a small amount—a piece of beef, a fragment of potato, a pool of dark gravy—and brought it to his mouth.