The morning of Cresbell was quiet, as if last night's commotion had been a lie. In the pale light leaking through the back entrance of the Moonlight Barrel, Regel stood before the kitchen shelves with his arms crossed. That night—ever since old Georg had run through the square—the Moonlight Barrel had been flooded with visitors day and night. More customers meant fewer ingredients. He'd checked everything last night, and the results were clear. Three bundles of thyme left. Just a pinch more of rosemary. Onions would manage somehow, but the real problem was the herbs. The essence of wild herb soup lay in the balance of aromatics. Once those ran out, the flavor would turn monotonous. And before worrying about whether the old men would cry again—the more immediate issue was that he wouldn't be able to make it at all. "Herbs, then," Regel murmured quietly, adjusting the knot on his navy apron. The morning market in the square happened once a week. Today was that day. Farmers brought v