A1e. The Guest in the Kitchen

Location: Kitchen

Characters: Peppermint, Abenezer Skrewyu

Background: Two days ago, the fey of the lodge and nearby woods gathered for Agnes’ annual tradition of a potluck Solstice feast. This year, in Agnes’ absence, a mourning Peppermint forgot to bring anything at all—and was condemned by Mistletoe and Juniper to clean up after the feast alone. She has been cleaning the lodge ever since—beginning with the suite, loft, and dining room, and now ending with the kitchen—and surviving on scraps of sleep in a nest of rags while fighting off the territorial Abenezer. Now, facing her final and largest task, she is exhausted, bitter, and desperate for help.

The neat, tidy kitchen you left is gone. In its place is a scene of chaos incarnate.

Carved ham bones lie scattered across the counter, their meat stripped clean and piled with congealed fat. A turkey carcass, stripped to the bone, dangles from the chandelier, a decorative orange hanging from its shoulder like a crown. Empty dishes teeter in precarious stacks, shattered eggshells cover the floor, and flour handprints climb the walls like desperate ghosts. By the window, a half-filled mixing bowl stands quietly upon the counter beside an overturned glass, a pile of small, metallic implements lying tumbled between them. Beneath the mess, a few feet from a shut pantry door, the hearth spits and crackles, casting wild shadows that seem to dance across the walls.

Near the water basin, a broom tied with a swooping red ribbon sweeps in slow, tired lines. Nearby, a dishrag works through a soup bowl in rough, slouching circles. Between them, a scrub brush attacks a stubborn stain on the floor, though it’s clear that its heart is only halfway in it.

And there—darting between crusty gravy boats and toppled soup tureens—is a figure no taller than your boots. Her red jacket blazes with gold trim, her white pants somehow pristine, and her tall cap sits at a jaunty angle, a tiny bell jingling at her collar below. She scrubs frantically at a casserole dish crusted with burnt cheese—nearly tripping over a gnawed turkey leg as she does—and hums a nervous, jittery tune, her tiny hands moving in twitchy, abrupt patterns.