Prompt: Spices; originally posted 13/7/07.
It all belongs to people who are not me. Except for the spices; I do actually have those.
The smoke is in her face, choking her, but with a glance at the dark head by her elbow Elizabeth stifles the curse that springs to her lips. He is so like Will, thus: brown eyes concentrating on the task at hand, small face earnest…
She pushes away a damp strand of hair and stirs the pot once more.
"Now what do we need?" she prompts.
Jamie looks up and grins. "A little seasoning?"
Nodding, Elizabeth pretends that the acrid wood-smoke has more to do with her smarting eyes than does the sudden, familiar sweetness of her son's smile.
Three years. Only three more years and then—
Jamie returns, struggling a little under the unwieldy weight of the carved box but refusing, with a six-year-old's pride, to let her help him. He lifts the lid to reveal many fragrant canisters: cinnamon, paprika, ginger, saffron, cayenne pepper and stranger names besides. As soon as Elizabeth opens two or three and begins to sprinkle some of their contents into the pot, the smell of distant marketplaces rises up around them, the scent of hot sun and adventure.
"The cumin is almost gone, Mama," Jamie informs her, treble voice serious.
She wraps her arms suddenly about him, drawing his thin child's body close.
"Then it is time we took another voyage and found some more," she whispers into his hair, and smiles at his quick wriggle of glee.
"Across the sea again!" he shouts. "We're going on the sea, on the sea, on the sea—oh, Mama, perhaps —"
Making a face that most certainly bears no resemblance to any expression she ever saw his father use, he breaks off and leaps wildly about her like a small pagan.
Men die in Mediterranean waters, too, she thinks abruptly.
Yes, perhaps—