The smell of yeast was the first thing that woke him. It hung in the air, thick and warm, cutting through the scent of pine smoke and wet wool. Ezra lay in bed for a moment, listening. The house was quiet. No footsteps on the stairs. No clatter of dishes. Just the low crackle of the fire in the hearth and the wind pressing against the ice dome outside.
He sat up. The sheets were warm. He swung his legs over the side. His boots were frozen stiff by the door. He had to chip the ice off the soles with the handle of his knife before he could pull them on.
He walked to the kitchen. Mara was at the counter. Her hands were covered in flour. She was kneading dough in a wooden bowl. The motion was rhythmic. Push. Fold. Turn. Push. Fold. Turn.
"Early," Ezra said. His voice was rough with sleep.
