Cinnamon and nutmeg vied with savory and sage. I thought I detected thyme, as well, but the melding tended to mute individual notes to create a unique symphony. My mouth watered. I hadn’t nibbled any turkey, and I’d had nothing to eat since that pancake grabbed early in the morning. It had been a long and very active day, and I found it hard to believe it was only about two o’clock. I pushed through the doorway and dragged off my coat. “Where’s my turkey?” Gerda called from the kitchen. “Safe at the church, as ordered.” Did she regret getting rid of our dinner? Her own fault, if she did, I thought uncharitably. “Idiot. The uncooked one.” Her head poked around the doorway into the dining room where I draped my wet things in front of the pellet stove. I sighed. “In its favorite nest.” Gerda shook her head. “I know how you like birds, but really, Annike, you shouldn’t spoil it so.” To my frustration, I couldn’t think of a single scathing remark. Instead, I went to inspect what she had just brought out of the oven.
