“It’s not quite ready yet.”
“The Lord will not wait forever, cook,” snarled the guard. He brandished his spiked club. “Finish your work quickly.”
“This cannot be rushed,” answered the chef. He dipped his spoon in and tasted, considered. “It must be sharper,” he murmured, “much sharper.” He quickly sliced a lemon and began squeezing the juice.
“How much longer?”
“I think it is nearly ready.” The chef lowered his hand into the steaming pot. He withdrew it with a rapid snapping motion. “Yes.” He nodded approvingly. “It is just sharp enough.”
The guard said nothing, skewered on the soup.
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