Alyssara hummed while she worked, a bright, wandering tune with no words and no particular end. She tied the crisp white apron behind her back and gathered her pink hair up off her neck, holding the tie between her lips while she twisted the whole wild mass into a loose bun. Then she pinned it, patted it, and said to nobody, "There."
The kitchen answered by being exactly the kitchen she wanted. Copper pans. A scrubbed wooden board. A window over a garden that had never had a winter. A big knife sat comfortably in her hand, and carrots, celery and onions fell under it in neat, satisfying piles before she swept them into a pot already simmering on the stove. Steam rose, rich with stock and thyme.
