In the northern levels, there was a saying. ‘Reaping wheat in winter’. It was used by children as a tongue twister, and by adults as a reprimand. If someone was reaping wheat in winter, it meant that they were naive enough to reap too early, sacrificing a bountiful harvest for a few stalks to abate the hunger that plagues the frozen months. In the long run, they only hurt themselves, as there was not enough left over for the next winter, and so the cycle repeats. To reap wheat in winter was a fruitless task that trapped you in a state of despair.

When someone fell in love for fleeting youth and beauty, that was reaping wheat in winter.

It was also used when someone grieved for something they haven’t really lost.

Dust motes floated in the shafts of early morning light that invaded the kitchen, glittering eddies swirling around pots, pans and hanging dried herbs. The beams scattered over the rough-cut brown stone slabs and tickled the stockings of a woman sat working. Thick chunks of potato fell from her fingers into the bowl as, methodically, she peeled and chopped her way through the sack on the floor next to her.

Her wimple was once neat but was now in danger of becoming dishevelled, and wisps of light blonde hair peeked out from under her snood. As she worked, thick drops of clear liquid fell from her face, splattering her hands and spattering against the wooden table, seeping slowly into the grain.

“Cry all you like, it’s just me and you down here and no-one will hear you.” A friendly face smiled at her as the newcomer skipped down the stairs from the refectory, arms piled high with dirty breakfast plates.

“Just remember to drink some water, all right?”

“I will, yes.” Claudia stopped peeling to wipe her eyes and face.

Sophie was not a tidy woman. Her shirt wore a perpetual dusting of flour speckles, and right now her left sleeve had been dipped into something oily, perhaps butter. One of her socks was pulled up, the other had fallen down, and she wore an apron on top of another apron as though, in the jumble of thoughts that made up her brain, she had forgotten exactly how many aprons a person should wear. The kitchen was covered from floor to rafters with notes, pinned up scraps of paper with meal plans, ingredient lists, chores, stocks, tallies and reminders (in big, underlined letters). She was the last person you came to if you needed something done, because she would either do it immediately or in a year. There was no in-between. But her openness and homely unkempt habits made the kitchen a great place of refuge for acolytes seeking comfort or kindness. There were always chores in the kitchen to keep your mind busy, a listening ear from Sophie, and hot cocoa on the hob.

“Were the two of you close?”

“Oh no, not really... It’s just… I feel like…” Large tears began to form in the corners of her eyes again as she stammered out the words. “I feel like it’s my fault.”

She barely got the words out before her lip wobbled and her face crumpled up in sadness.

“Oh, honey. How is this your fault, hmm? You are not to blame for the world we live in.” Sophie placed a comforting hand on her shaking shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

“I-I know b-but... “ Claudia sniffed. “I went out that n-night, I needed the bathroom and…” her words trailed off with her thoughts.

“Listen, Claudie. Did anything see you?”

“N-no.”

“Did anything hear you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is it not likely that anyone would see Gol if they were out at night?”

“I suppose, yes.”

“But most importantly my dear, even if it did see you, why would you be to blame for the actions of an evil creature, hmm? Gol kill humans regardless, why blame the prey for the actions of the predator?”

Claudia’s hands stopped mid-peel. She turned to Sophie with her mouth agape, her eyes dry.

“I never really thought about it like that before.”

Sophie smirked, and produced a big brass key from an apron pocket. Holding it aloft, she proclaimed;

“Let’s have a wake. A party! Let’s get everyone’s spirits up, hmm? What say you Claudie, will you go down to the larder for me, and pick out some nice things for us all to eat?”

As she said this, the back door thudded open and a wheelbarrow appeared, followed closely by a pair of strong hands and a heavily veiled Quodlibet in blue and brown. Her face was obscured by a thick layer of blue fabric, and she stood straight-backed and tall in the bright morning sunbeams.

“Ah, Sister Abigail, perfect timing!” Sophie clasped her hands and smiled at the new arrival, who was transferring mushrooms from barrow to shelf.

Plans were made and baskets were distributed and the two nuns, now kitted out in fresh borrowed aprons, headed down to the larder. This was not a cupboard or a storage room as you might expect, it was a part of the undercroft which had been made available for storing the bulk, non-perishable foods which kept the Abbey fed and nourished throughout the winter months. It had been several months, almost a year, since they had last seen a merchant or had any supplies gifted from the outside world and yet the larder remained relatively full. As of yet, with the help of the community farms and foraging, there was no need to panic about food supply.

It was quite the descent, however, and by the time Claudia and Abigail reached the large oaken door and turned the key they were almost out of breath. Sister Abigail was Sophie’s assistant and thus was used to the sight of the vaulted larder, but this was Claudia’s first time visiting and as Abigail lit and raised the central chandelier her breath caught in her throat as the light began to reveal the contents of the vault.

Big, sticky glass jars of honey so big it would take two people to carry a single one, whole honeycombs floating inside glistening like gold in the torchlight. Long sheafs of dried herbs hung from the vaulted rafters, sending down wafts of tarragon, rosemary and dill. Cloudy bottles of tonic wine were neatly stacked against the far wall, and barrels of cider floating with sweet-skinned apples reached to the ceiling. Giant sacks of grain - barley, wheat and millet - stood on flour-dusted floors beneath funnels from above. they were beneath a silo, Abigail explained, which could be filled from the ground level. On shelves were dotted smaller bottles with more obscure contents. Poppy oil and flax, candied chestnuts and walnuts in brine. Ferns preserved in maple syrup and baskets of wrinkled, tart little elderberries.

“You should choose what you find tasty, I’ll advise on how to make it into a recipe.” Abigail had said, and not long later Claudia had filled her basket with lemon curd, dried figs, cinnamon sticks and almond powder. Seeing this, Abigail picked up some oats, white flour, clarified butter and a hard, pollen-rich block of honey.

“We can make spiced apple pies, mint and lemon tarts, and marzipan flapjacks.” The veiled nun said, nodding curtly. “But right now I need you to wait here.”

Claudia nodded and watched her as the tall nun gathered together some dried fruits on a plate, almost as if she was making a meal, and leave through a small side door. She lay down on a bag of flour and licked lemon curd from her fingertips, feeling more content than she had done in a very long time. She didn’t even notice that she had been left alone in the dark.

She barely noticed the first tap. The second tap, she thought she had imagined. But when the third tap came, soft and slick against her ankle, she knew it was not in her head. She recognised this sound. This hollow noise that pulsated, slowly and rhythmically, to the tune of some silent song.

She shrieked and looked down at her leg, but saw nothing. No sign of the gelatinous, fleshy body of whatever insect-slug she has seen with Wille in the bathroom.

She pulled her legs up onto the flour sack and clasped them fretfully.

“Is something the matter?”

Claudia screamed, before stopping herself with a hand to her mouth. It was only Abigail, hunched over her and tilting her head to one side.

“I thought I heard a shout. Nothing down here but rodents, yes. Just a mouse it was, and nothing more.” Abigail patted her shoulder, and the two made their way back up the winding staircase.

---

When the two of them returned to the kitchen there was a new face at the table. Two, actually, as Smidgeon the kitchen cat rubbed their face up against the mud-spattered boots of a nun in a rusty brown habit that came straight down to her ankles. She did not look up from her stew as the two entered, panting, and began emptying their haul onto the sideboard.

“Really Inka, that soup will be freezing cold by now! Let me warm you up a bowl?” Sophie said, already placing some slices of brown rye bread to toast under the fire. The rusty-brown nun shrugged.

“Cold is fine.”

“It’s the least I can do for the rabbits, at least have a slice of toast?” The taciturn nun didn’t reply, perhaps knowing a futile battle when she saw one, and accepted the toast when it was ready. Claudia noticed three fresh rabbits on the table, pink noses speckled with blood.

Abigail left to gather some fresh garden mint, leaving Claudia and Sophie to prepare the pastry and fillings for tonight’s wake. Sister Inka ate in silence, fed her scraps to the cat in silence, before leaving in silence out the back door.

“Who was that?” Claudia asked.

“Who, Inka? You never met Inka?”

Claudia shook her head.

“Well, she’s just… Inka. She spends most of her time outside the walls. If the Gol are around, she is usually the first to notice, and she knows everything there is to know about animals and plants!”

“Wait, she stays outside!? all the time?” Claudia’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Yep! She’s a real wild one, that Inka. I guess she’s an old-timey peregrine? She knows how to look after herself, I wouldn’t worry about her. Besides, she is staying in the barn for the time being.” Sophie had managed to get even more flour on her aprons, and on her nose.

Claudia stirred in silence for a moment, before asking.

“Do you think she knows a lot about... bugs?”

“Huh I dunno, never asked her. Not much call for recipes involving bugs! Why, have you seen any? Not in my larder I hope?”

“Oh, no, I just… was curious.” She absent-mindedly scratched the back of Smidge’s head, who had come to investigate the lemon curd in her bowl. Finding it uninteresting, the cat instead made a beeline for the rabbits on the table. The two of them shooed it out, brandishing brooms and yelling, but not before the beast was able to drag one out of the back door and into the garden.

“Well, at least all of us will eat well tonight.” Sophie said, her hands skillfully folding pastry into pie crust.

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