The woman looked at her for a moment. Then at the pot. Then at her companions, who were exhibiting the rigid stillness of people trying very hard to be invisible.
"Spiced wine," the woman said. "Old Maret's recipe. She's been making it since before I started here."
"Thirty-two years," said one of the other women, apparently unable to help herself.
"Does it have a name?" Elara asked.
"We call it 'end of day,'" the grey-haired one said. "Because that's when you have it. When everything's done and there's nothing left to do but sit."
Elara looked at the pot.
The grey-haired woman—after a moment that contained a full internal debate Elara could read in the line of her shoulders—reached for a spare clay cup. Filled it. Held it out.
The other two women had achieved a state of suspended animation, apparently uncertain whether they were witnessing something wonderful or catastrophic.
Elara crossed to the doorway. Took the cup.
Drank.
