She smoothed her hair from the crown to her shoulder.

“Marcus said six.”

“He says six and means five.” She held out a spoon of gravy.

“Taste this.”

It was good, salty and dark, and I said so.

“Rosemary and a little coffee,” she said.

“Don’t tell Marcus.

He thinks coffee is for mornings.” For a moment the room was only the oven timer and the spoon against the pot.