Okay, off to try and be less precious about the next bit.
Jeet Doro's Kitchens
No matter how hard or fast Mist scrubbed, the giant, greasy pile of pots kept growing taller.
She glared miserably at the dishes. An hour’s worth of scrubbing and she hadn’t even made a dent in the mountain of pots, iron skillets and three legged cauldrons that covered the length of the nearby worktable in a sprawling stinking heap. The truly big ones, the ones roomy enough to bathe in, were haphazardly stacked nearby, left for the kitchen boys.
She snuck a look to make sure no one was watching, then pushed away from the stone wash basin. She just needed a moment to stretch out the kink in her back, that spot that felt like someone was ramming a carving knife between her shoulder blades.
“Mist! Back to work,” one of the under cooks snapped.
Mist stifled a groan, grabbed the nearest pot and dunked it into the basin. She knew better than to complain on a banquet day. Using a stiff bristled brush , she worked at the remains of a mushroom sauce, which had hardened into black cement. Four more hours before she got a break, a bite of bread and a moment’s rest, and then the clean up would begin. She’d be lucky to see her sleeping mat before midnight. The sauce refused to come clean, so Mist tossed a handful of soap pellets into the water and churned it to a bubbly froth. The harsh soap, made from potash and tallow, stung her skin. Her hands would be chapped and cracked before the day was done.
Gods, how she hated banquet days—up since dawn, running coal, scouring pots, and mostly trying to keep out of trouble. Somehow though, trouble kept finding her.
A heavy hand landed on her shoulder and roughly spun her around.