The kitchen smelled of bacon. Not the gentle nostalgic scent of breakfast past, the kind that made you smile and stretch and reach for another cup of coffee. This was the accusatory smell of bacon that had been stolen, eaten, and mourned, the aroma hanging in the air like a witness at a crime scene.
Penia stood with her arms crossed, her flour-dusted apron still tied at her waist, a smear of something dark and sticky on her sleeve. Her face was a thundercloud of indignation, the kind of expression that had sent lesser men running from her kitchen with their tails between their legs. On the table, perched atop a cutting board like a king on a throne, sat the goat with equal momentum not out done by the woman Infront of him. On the side younger cooks were either crowded on a wall or holding rolling pins and cooking sticks looking like they had tried to hit the goat but it had managed to escape each time.
"Theron."
