The sun had barely peeked over Rivermoor's rooftops when Abbie and Mona stepped out of their tiny apartment above The Copper Stag. Today was a rare gift: no chores in the pub, no stew to stir, no mugs to wash. Just a free day.
Abbie stretched so dramatically she nearly toppled backward.
"Finally. A day where no one needs anything from us."
Mona adjusted her shawl. "That's optimistic."
"Hopeful," Abbie corrected. "I'm being hopeful."
They headed down Market Street with empty baskets and lighter hearts than usual, ready to buy dinner ingredients and absolutely nothing else—at least in theory.
The market was already alive with noise. Vendors shouted prices that changed mid-sentence, chickens argued with one another, and somewhere a goose hissed with great authority.
Abbie inhaled deeply. "Smell that? Freedom. And bread."
Mona glanced toward a vegetable stall. "We're starting sensible. Vegetables first."
"Fine," Abbie said. "But only if the carrots look like they have ambition."
Mr. Tibbles, the vegetable seller, greeted them by juggling two cabbages and nearly dropping both.
"Careful!" Mona said.
"Nonsense," he replied. "These cabbages respect me."
Abbie leaned in to inspect the produce. "We'll take carrots, onions, and whatever that is."
"That," Mr. Tibbles said proudly, "is a squash with character."
Mona sighed. "Of course it is."
At the bakery, Abbie insisted on loaves that were "golden enough to inspire confidence," while Mona paid and apologized on her behalf.
It was there Abbie noticed a small commotion near the fish stall—a slippery fish, a startled child, and a rapidly forming crowd.
"Oh no," Mona said. "She's smiling."
Abbie was already moving. "I'll be quick."
Within minutes, a carefully planted explanation—the fish leapt of its own free will—spread through the crowd. The child was absolved, the fish reclaimed, and peace restored.
Mona shook her head as they walked away. "That was supposed to be a free day."
"It was," Abbie said cheerfully. "That was recreational helping."
By midday, their baskets were full: vegetables, bread, cheese, and a fox-shaped pastry Abbie claimed spoke to her.
"It's for dessert," Mona said flatly.
"Or destiny," Abbie replied.
Back at their apartment, cooking began with confidence and ended immediately in chaos.
Abbie chopped vegetables with theatrical flair.
"Precision," she said, missing the board entirely.
Mona caught a flying carrot. "We're alive. That's progress."
They built a soup from reasonable ingredients, questionable instincts, and one distraction too many—namely, a knock at the door.
Mr. Tibbles appeared with extra herbs and a small chicken.
"Inspiration," he announced.
"Interference," Mona muttered.
Somewhere between chopping, arguing, and improvising, the fox-shaped pastry slid off the counter.
"No—!" Abbie gasped.
It vanished into the soup.
They stared at the pot.
Mona exhaled slowly. "Well. That's happened."
Abbie shrugged. "Too late to mourn."
They sat at the tiny table, knees nearly knocking, steam rising from their bowls like the soup was bracing itself.
Abbie lifted her ladle suspiciously and took a sip.
Paused.
Then took another.
"Mona," she said carefully, "either this soup is good… or we've both lost our standards entirely."
Mona tasted hers, fully prepared to be disappointed. Instead, she frowned.
"…Oh no. It's good."
Abbie grinned. "We dropped a pastry into boiling vegetables and accidentally cooked competence."
Mona leaned back. "That fox pastry died for a noble cause."
"To mistakes," Abbie said, raising her ladle.
"To never explaining this," Mona replied, tapping her bowl against it.
They ate in comfortable silence for a moment.
"You know," Abbie said at last, "we didn't mean to make something edible."
"Of course not," Mona said. "If anyone asks, we were aiming for disaster and missed."
Abbie smiled. "Good. I'd hate to set expectations."
And somewhere below them, Rivermoor continued on—unaware that another small, unlikely success had just been added to its growing collection of stories.