With that, she got a clean pot—much smaller than the usual soup pot—and dropped a bit of bacon in a frying pan. By the time Anna got back from feeding the chickens, collecting the eggs, and feeding and mucking out the pigsty, the pot was full and simmering on the hearth, and there was a rich and tantalizing aroma filling the cabin. Anna recognized the familiar touches of vegetables and herbs and of course bacon fat, but the meaty, earthy base of the scent eluded her.

Her aunt laid out a cold dinner, since the day was already warm enough without further adding heat by fully firing up the stove. Already Anna could see the value in this kind of stove—when it was summer, you only needed to have enough fire in the hearth to cook food, not heat up that giant mass of masonry—and all that stone and mortar absorbed so much of the heat from the hearth that it didn’t penetrate to the rest of the cabin. Not like a cast-iron stove, where the whole thing was either hot or cold.

“I want y’all t’ go down the lane and git me some thangs,” Jinny said, as they finished up the dishes. “Flares, ac’chully. Roses’r bloomin’, an’ lilies. Time t’make scent fer soap.”

“Yes’m,” she replied eagerly. This might be the best chore her aunt had ever set her. Picking wildflowers was hardly a chore at all. She listened carefully as Jinny gave her exact instructions, then sent her out with a bushel basket. The flowers weren’t going to be remotely heavy, even if she filled the basket, and if there was any coolth to be had, it would be down the lane under the trees.

Wild roses were her first quest; Jinny had given her very particular instructions to locate a clearing off the lane where the rose shrubs had just taken over the entire place. And sure enough, within about a quarter of an hour, she pushed through bushes to find a riot of roses in various stages of bloom, bud, and developing hips. Jinny wanted things picked in a particular order—hips were as desirable as blooms, so the ripe, marble-sized hips came first, going into the bottom of the basket. Then, once she had picked as many as she could reach, a layer of leaves to keep them from moving around much. Then, carefully, the roses themselves. First buds just starting to unfurl, then another layer of leaves, then those in full bloom, picked at the height of the blossom, with just enough stem on them to keep them from wilting immediately. And she counted herself extremely lucky that this patch of roses was not only deliciously fragrant, but surprisingly thorn-free. Not thornless, but the thorns were small and considerably less trouble than blackberry thorns.

Getting all the flowers she could reach filled up the basket about halfway, and the scent—well she thought she could easily get drunk on it. Next, she was supposed to go to the other side of the lane to gather tiger lilies.