Esme hovered near the low fire pit, sleeves rolled unevenly, a wooden spoon in her grip like it might leap from her hand and attack her at any moment.
The pot simmered. And hissed. And then bubbled over.
"Oh—!" Esme lunged, sloshing broth onto the stones. She snatched the cloth a second too late, flailing to wipe up the mess.
Across the room, the priestess didn't flinch. She watched—like one might observe a stray dog try to walk upright.
"You stir with your wrist, not your whole arm," she murmured. "Unless you enjoy watching dinner boil to death."
Esme mumbled something resembling an apology, only to wince when the edge of her sleeve dipped into the pot. Again.
Later, as she tried to fold dried herbs into bundles, the strings tangled into a miserable knot. She huffed quietly, pulling at it with trembling fingers. The priestess walked past, took one glance, and remarked,
"Did no one teach you to tie a knot, or do you simply prefer your chaos tangled?"
