the smuggler’s bible


Ruby lights every burner and gets the pots situated. Nothing in them yet. That will come later. The bird’s in the pan, half-submerged in gravy. Ruby peppers it across the flank, then hurls it into the oven.

“Thirty minutes,” she calls out to the rest of the house. A knife appears in her hand, sinks with a whisper to the hilt into the first potato. “Gonna be a crash landing, so wear your smocks.”

Dahl taps on the door frame. “Need any help?”

“Grate those pumpkins.” Ruby slides a box across the tile with a kick. “And I mean thin.”