Dream d2699-s: Nothing Wanting on the Shelf

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where I stood in the Mossfell kitchen on the third night and opened the second book to the page that had been left blank for this place, and I began to write down what I found.

The larder door was shut and latched. I opened it. The jars stood in rows, sealed, the contents still readable through the glass: brine, oil, something darker that had once been plums. None of the lids had lifted. The cloth covers on the crocks were tied at the neck and the ties had not been disturbed. I wrote: larder, in good order. I wrote the count of the jars and left the tally column for whoever keeps the first book, which I do not carry.

Lano moved along the base of the shelving with her nose low, working the join between the board and the wall. She found nothing that interested her and came back to my heel.

The pots were stacked, largest below, and the stack had not shifted; there was a faint ring of copper scale on the hook where the largest one hung when it was in use, and the hook was empty, and that was as it should be. The cutting board had been scrubbed and stood on its edge to dry. I estimated it had been standing there for more than a season. It had not warped. I wrote: board, vertical, in good order.

The hearth had been cleaned out. The grate held no ash worth recording. There was a small bundle of tinder on the ledge above, wrapped in waxed paper, and I held the paper up to the lamp and saw through it: the tinder had not gone damp. I set it back on the ledge in the same position and wrote: tinder, good.

Lano sat down under the window and watched me cross from the hearth to the table. The table was clear. Two chairs pushed in. I pulled each one out and looked at the seat and pushed it in again. No softening of the wood, no sign that either chair had been sat in recently enough to matter. I wrote: table and chairs, in good order. I did not write what I was thinking, because the second book is for conditions, not thoughts.

The window glass was intact. One pane had a long diagonal mark in it, old, not a crack, something dragged across the outside years ago. I recorded the mark, its direction and approximate length. I did not write what had made it, because I do not know.

I wrote at the bottom of the entry: kitchen at Mossfell, third night, examined in full, nothing spoiled, nothing wanting on the shelf. I drew the close-bracket that means the examination is complete, and I turned to the next blank page, which belongs to a different place.

Lano was already at the door.

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