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"No place to make hot chicory in my new rooms," Ru-
berik grumbled by way of apology. Pots banged and kettles
clanged while he clumsily heated water over the fire, then
poured it through a length of coarse netting that held some
fresh ground, roasted root. Taking a sip of the brew he shiv-
ered. "Nice and bitter," he concluded, looking as pleased as
Ruberik ever did. With that he pulled on a heavy leather
coat and grumbled his way into the dawn, slamming the
door behind him. A current of damp, cold air rushed
through the room and fanned the fire in the grate.
Flint chuckled at his brother's ill humor despite his own
fatigue. He dug his hairy fists into his eye sockets, stretched,
and smacked his lips. Hoping to douse the sour taste in his
mouth, he took the water kettle from the fireside and made
his way to the kitchen, across the room from the front door.
The area was small but well organized. Using Ruberik's net-
ting, Flint managed to rustle up his own pot of brew. Bertina
kept the cream in the same place his mother had: against the
back of a low cupboard along the cold north wall, where it
stayed fresh longer
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