"This is even less than yesterday!" Parsley shouts.

Emphasised with a stomp of her foot on the hard brick floor, her usual upbeat, annoyingly enthusiastic demeanor broken by the one thing which seemed to get to her. Food, rather the paucity of it, spooned into her little wooden bowl this morning.

“How much you think the outdoor slaves are getting if that’s what I’m feeding you,” snipes back Chef Mal, a tiny, and angry looking, stoat girl.

“It’s so little!” Parsley protests.

“If supply disruptions keep up as it is, none of us will be eating. So. Be grateful.”

Parsley knew when to stop, having already complained more than she was entitled to. But she still refused the advice to be grateful, and kept grumbling under her breath to herself, just as a chair may groan beneath the weight of the person who’s sat upon it.

Though a chair which groans gets replaced eventually, and there were plenty of outdoor slaves eating less.

“You may have mine,” Dorige offers, “I’m not feeling hungry this morning.”

Parsley accepts.

Her mood never stayed down for long. Even if it wasn’t as much food as she wanted, or as much as usual, it was more than she had a few moments ago, it was enough to turn her around, to keep her annoyingly upbeat and enthusiastic.

Dorige appreciated just how little it took.

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