The first batch was a disaster.
Marron stared at the blackened rice, smoke still curling from their charred surfaces. The oil had been too hot—she was sure of it—but the flame had flickered strangely just as she'd added the rice, flaring high enough to scorch everything in the pan.
"Clumsy," whispered a voice that might have been the wind. Or might not have been.
Marron's jaw tightened. She scraped the ruined food into the waste bin and started again.
The second attempt was slightly better, until she tasted the pickles. Her face scrunched up and she had to throw them in the bin.
Sour beyond saving.
It wasn't a crunchy and pleasantly sour pickle. It was absolutly rancid, like they had been made with milk.
Very weird.
I know I checked them before I added the pickles in the pan...so why are they so bad now?
"Such a shame," came that sliding voice again, closer this time. "All that effort, wasted."
