The shelves were lined with jars of kumquat marmalade she had canned last summer. Now they squatted in the windows, gleaming in the sun that shone through the glass. She chose one and taking a knife, pried off the lid and scraped the jar’s contents into a mug. The marmalade was warm. Carina stirred it, poured in a trickle of water and stirred it again. The spoon clinking against the ceramic was the only noise in the cottage.
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