A magical meal

I was researching how houses were arranged for a fantasy story where the main character is an apothecary of sorts, and had an awful idea.

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Most witches recommend completely separate buildings for craft and food, if you can afford it. Otherwise, either ends of the same building, plus a few wards, are usually enough.

A one room hut on the edge of the slums allows little in the way of safety precautions.

A small fire burns brightly in the middle of the room, a ring of stones around it anchoring a minor spark ward. An old pot sits to one side, tilted slightly on an angle, softly bubbling away. There is only rice inside, the grains soaking in mostly-clear water from the well, yet the smell is mouthwatering. Like walking past one of the good alehouses just before dinner, when the stew is fresh and heavy with herbs and meat. The scent twines through the air, clustering by the ceiling with the smoke, and you know it will linger until at least the dawn.

You scoop some rice into a bowl and set to it with abandon. It fills your aching stomach with warmth and weight, the taste bringing tears of remembrance to your eyes, and you let yourself bask in the experience.

You do not see the slight silvery sheen to the grains.

Seeing is the privilege of those with choice.