Arwa’s brown eyes narrowed slightly as she examined my handiwork. With her hands set upon her hips and her head tilted, she observed it with meticulous care. There was a seriousness to her face, yet also clear satisfaction.

  “Arwa, I always approach my work with the utmost seriousness and devotion,” I said, unable to hide a quiet desire for approval. “What do you think of the walls and ceiling? Do they meet with your liking?”

  The old woman nodded, a faint smile touching her lips. “Alek, you have done a master’s work,” she said warmly. “That old husband of mine would have put it off again and again. Thanks be, the task is finished by your hands. This winter we shall be spared the rain and the bitter cold.”

  Her words filled me with pride. Yet I could not decide whether her sharp tongue was a trait of age, or something she had possessed since youth. All I knew was that she was forthright and open-hearted.

  At that moment, Daneel’s voice rose from beside the hearth. “Arwa, I can hear what you are saying from here,” he remarked without taking his eyes off the fire. She merely shrugged, as though his protest were of little consequence. Not wishing to stir a quarrel, I chose to change the subject.

  “Daneel, I believe you are rather skilled with meat dishes,” I said gently. “Otherwise, Arwa would hardly leave the cooking to you.”

  The old man fell silent for a moment, then gazed into the distance. “Aye, lad, I am,” he replied, his voice thick with memory. “When I was a soldier, I always prepared the meals for my comrades. I have experience, and among my own folk I am known as a good cook.”

  After speaking, he grew quiet, a distant longing settling over his face. Arwa, weary from her long walk, sat silently by the fire.

  I turned my attention to Daneel’s preparations. He placed previously washed, smooth stones among the embers of the hearth. Drawing a sharp knife, he began slicing the meat carefully to increase its surface area.

  Once he had finished, he took a pinch from the spices laid upon the table and mixed them with care: dried tree leaves, red chilli flakes, thyme, and coarse salt. He poured melted butter into a clay bowl and blended it with the spices, then carefully rubbed the mixture over the meat.

  When he laid the meat upon the fire-heated stones, an appetising aroma filled the room. The sharp sizzle as it met the stone made each of our stomachs growl a little louder. Daneel was wholly absorbed in his work, and only then did he notice me watching.

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  “Alek, this will be your first time eating meat cooked upon stone, will it not?” he said, turning to me. “You shall love the flavour. Now I shall place other things beside it upon the embers.”

  He fetched several vegetables from the kitchen: sweet potatoes, red onions, a dark root resembling a carrot, and a purple vegetable akin to an aubergine. I studied these unfamiliar foods with interest while he placed them upon the coals.

  “These roasted vegetables will enhance the meat,” he explained. “And buba fruit juice pairs well with it. It has a gentle sweet-sour note that balances the richness. Could you press the buba fruits and fill a jug?”

  “Of course. I am glad to help. Though I have never heard of buba fruit—how does one extract its juice?” I asked.

  “Buba is dark green, about the size of two fists, filled with many seeded pearls within,” Daneel replied, gesturing towards a woven basket beneath the counter. “Crush them with the stone press.”

  I nodded and set to work. When I peeled the fruit, bright yellow, jelly-like seeds spilled forth. Though it resembled a pomegranate, the texture of its inner pearls was entirely different. I pressed the fruit and let its juice flow into a clay jug.

  Meanwhile, Daneel returned to the hearth, adding more wood to the fire. He looked weary from a full day’s labour. “You may lay the floor table, Alek,” he said. “I shall rest a while.”

  I arranged clay plates and cups upon the low table, placing small white flatbreads at its centre. Yet I noticed there were no forks or knives in this world. People seemed to eat either with wooden spoons or with their hands. A small pang struck me; I did not wish to abandon the courtesies I had known.

  “Daneel,” I said, “in my world we use forks and knives. They allow us to eat without soiling our hands. I should like you to try. If possible, could you fashion wooden forks?”

  The old man considered it briefly and soon carved two simple, two-pronged forks. They were crude, yet functional. As he examined them, I caught Arwa smiling.

  When the meat was done, I laid it sliced upon flat clay plates and added the roasted vegetables to a dish. At last, I poured the buba juice into clay cups.

  Daneel gently nudged Arwa awake. “Arwa, come—supper is ready.” She opened her eyes and took her place by the hearth. Though tired, she looked content.

  Before we began, I showed them how to use the fork and knife. “This,” I said, holding it up, “is called a fork. It helps us eat without making a mess of our hands. And this is a knife, for cutting the meat properly. Pray, try—it will not take long to grow accustomed.”

  Arwa followed my example carefully. Daneel, however, at first attempted to spear the meat as though it were a lance. Arwa burst into laughter, and though he looked mildly offended, he soon managed to use it correctly.

  The meal was excellent. Yet with every bite, a hollow feeling grew within me. I thought of my family. When my eyes filled with tears, I found I could not hold them back.