The three of us finally sat around the table. Mistress sat at one end, her expression unreadable, while the boy and I sat across from each other. It wasn't exactly an atmosphere of comfort. Mistress observed us with her elbows resting on the table, her fingers intertwined under her chin, her dark gaze darting between us. Neither the boy nor I said or did anything. The tension in the air wasn't entirely due to Mistress' piercing gaze—it was mostly because of… the strange black soup (?) sitting ominously in our bowls.
I don't know about the boy, but I was utterly perplexed. How could Mistress create something so viscous, so utterly dark, with the modest ingredients in the cupboard? A real culinary enigma. The thick, inky liquid glistened unnaturally under the dim candlelight. It smelled faintly of spices, but there was an undertone that reminded me vaguely of burnt rubber. I poked at it cautiously with my spoon, half-expecting it to move on its own.
