The inn kitchen smelled faintly of cloudberries and woodsmoke when Marron stepped inside before the morning rush.
Ciel was already there, sleeves rolled, tying her apron tighter with a look that suggested she had been awake longer than necessary.
"You're early," Ciel said without turning around.
"I couldn't sleep," Marron replied. "Is there chicken?"
Ciel paused mid-chop.
"There's always chicken. Why?"
Marron hesitated.
The question had come to her the night before, casual and careless, as she scanned the small chalkboard menu near the lobby.
Roasted fowl stew.
Apple-glazed thigh.
Herb poached breast.
But no cutlet. No fried version. No simple breaded comfort.
She had asked Madam Lou why.
"Oh, it doesn't sell much," the fox woman had replied lightly. "Travelers prefer things that feel… hearty."
Marron had stared at her.
"Hearty," she had repeated.
Now, standing in the kitchen, she said it again.
"Why doesn't anyone order fried cutlet?"
