Saturday, June 18, 2016

Spice and Wolf Volume 11

Plop a soft lump of bread dough down on the table.

Carve a winding groove through it with your finger, and then let water flow through the groove. Let a few trees grow here and there.

Doing all that would result in the scene that lay before him, he was sure.

Such thoughts ran through Lawrence's mind as he sat in the driver's seat of the wagon, musing on the taste of baked bread—a taste he had not enjoyed in several days. He could not help but swallow hungrily.

They'd left town some three days earlier, so it was too soon to be thinking so fondly of hot food. In the past, he had crossed entire mountains on nothing but a moldy crust of oat bread and a bit of salt. When he thought of that, these travels with bread, wine, and even a side dish of some kind seemed disturbingly luxurious.

And while he often told himself as much, his purse strings had been rather loose on this journey, with his mood similarly so.

In his seven years' travel since starting out at the age of eighteen, this was easily the most luxurious trip he had taken.

"Poultry legs." Perhaps having heard his gulp, Lawrence's traveling companion spoke up as she sat next to him in the driver's seat.

Her face was buried in her fox fur muffler, and she busied her-self by combing more fur in her lap—but this was not the pelt of a dog nor a fox, but the unmistakable fur of a wolf.

Normally a wolf's fur would be a bit shorter, scruffier, and generally shabbier. But the fur that his companion now tended to was without exaggeration of the finest quality, its warmth at night nearly miraculous. It was neatly combed, thanks to her periodic nibbling of its roots.

Lawrence wondered how much it would cost to buy it were the fur for sale—but soon thought better of the notion. Far more relevant than how much it would take to buy was the question of how much it could be sold for.

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