Penance

The Meadows’ kitchen is warm and gold and full of light.
 
Muse’s hands pause over the stove. There are vegetables simmering in a hearty broth, and if Muse could smell, they are sure it would smell delicious. Betua certainly seems to think so. She has wandered into the kitchen several times already, her nose high in the air, and each time, Muse has had to gently shoo her out.
 
Still, it isn’t just the smell of food that keeps luring Betua in. Her insistent presence is a reminder of the niggling feeling Muse has been trying to shoo away, as well. From the smug sensation plucking at the edges of their awareness, they are sure Betua knows it.
 
They slip out of the kitchen as quietly as metal feet can carry them. They glide to their collection of odds and ends, piled in a slowly-growing tumble behind the coat rack near the front door. From these they pull a small, simple basket, no bigger than the palm of their hand. They feel Betua laugh as they carry it into the kitchen, and make a mental note to either scold her or thank her later. Much as they hate to admit it, after all, she has a point. A goddess cannot be ignored forever.
 
Gold sparks flare at their fingertips, and berries fill their hand. Muse pours them into the basket. They cast about the countertop and, from the mix of leftover vegetables, retrieve a smallish carrot, potato, and onion. These go into the basket as well. They gaze into it for longer than they care to count, listening to the bubbling from the stove and the sounds of movement from the other room. Then they set the basket above the stove, atop a corner of a cabinet where it will, they hope, remain out of sight of the smaller inhabitants of the home.
 
<You know, if your Lady of Houses is anything like your books say she is, she wouldn’t want your guilt as an offering.>
 
Muse tilts their head. Their gaze remains fixed on the basket for a while longer. Then they return to the stove. The admonishment in Betua’s voice hangs heavy in the back of their mind. But they cannot dwell on it now. There is work to do. There is food to make, and dishes to wash, and weeding to finish, and then…
 
<Do you really think your love is worth less, just because you’re sending it from someone else’s home?>
 
But Betua cannot understand. She is a spirit of the wilds. The world itself is her home. A home like that cannot be abandoned, cannot wither, cannot be left to rot. And no goddess can punish her for failing it. No goddess can be disappointed in her for leaving it behind.
 
Muse closes their inner ear. They feel Betua huff, equal parts exasperation and fondness. Then there is a whisper of movement as the now-fox slides down from their perch. Her presence fades in the direction of the conservatory–likely to harass Daphne into playing with her again. And then Muse is alone with the sound of simmering food and a hollow in their chest that one small basket, one small prayer for Fodla’s forgiveness, can barely begin to fill.