In the smoky low-lit halls of Dunbridge Keep, where tapestries hung just slightly askew and the torch sconces always seemed to lean a little to the left, Lord Halberd of Dunbridge reclined in his stone-backed chair beside the hearth. Outside, rain beat a steady rhythm on the narrow tower windows, and the scent of wet moss and damp wool wafted in every time a servant passed through the hall.

Beside him stood Melvin, Lord Halberd’s ever-faithful—if ever-fluctuating—advisor. He was a man of small frame and even smaller constitution, with watery eyes, a nervous tuft of hair like a hedgehog in distress, and a voice like parchment being reluctantly torn.

“I find myself,” said Lord Halberd, placing his goblet down with a deliberate clack, “in need of dinner.”

“Oh, splendid, my lord!” Melvin chirped at once, hands fluttering like a moth in panic. “A most noble desire, yes! A feast to stir the soul and warm the belly, yes indeed!”

The cook was summoned with the clang of a bell—Mrs. Gubbins, a stout woman with arms like cured hams and a Cockney accent so thick it could be spread on bread. She arrived in her soot-covered apron, chewing thoughtfully on a raw leek like it owed her money.

“Well then?” said Lord Halberd, casting an eye toward the heavens—or at least the ceiling beams. “Let’s have duck.”

“Ah, duck!” Melvin sang. “Roasted and glistening, the very pinnacle of poultry! With perhaps a honey glaze, oh what a delight—”

Mrs. Gubbins snorted. “Duck’s gone off, it ‘as. Took one whiff and near died, I did. Smelled like a wet boot full o’ old cheese.”

“Disgusting,” said Melvin instantly. “Duck is overrated, my lord. Always swimming about, flapping those ridiculous feet. I never trusted a bird that can both fly and paddle. Unnatural.”

“Very well,” Lord Halberd muttered, unbothered. “How about mutton stew? A hearty fare for a rainy night.”

“Oh, mutton! A robust choice!” Melvin declared. “The common man's banquet! Fragrant with rosemary, thick with root vegetables—”

“We’re outta mutton,” Mrs. Gubbins interrupted. “Cooked the last of it this mornin’. Gave it to them guards what fell off the rampart yesterday. Poor sods broke their legs, they did.”

“Ah. Of course,” Melvin coughed. “Frankly, stew is rather dreary, isn’t it? All that sloshing. And mutton? Tough as an old monk’s sandal. Always catches in me teeth.”

Lord Halberd raised one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Fish, then. Smoked trout, perhaps.”

Melvin clasped his hands with great enthusiasm. “Ah, trout! So silvery, so elegant! A noble fish! A fish for kings and poets!”

“Lake’s flooded,” said Mrs. Gubbins, leaning on her rolling pin like a battle club. “All the fish is swimmin’ somewhere up in the abbey by now.”

“Swamp fish, really,” Melvin sniffed. “Never liked trout. Too slippery. Like trying to eat soap with bones.”

Lord Halberd now gave Melvin a long, unreadable look.

“We could do pheasant,” he tried.

“Ahhh, pheasant,” Melvin breathed. “Gamey perfection! Feathered nobility!”

“Shot the last one two days ago,” said Mrs. Gubbins. “Turns out it were the Mayor’s pet. Lovely funeral, though.”

“Garish birds, anyway,” Melvin said with a sharp nod. “Always strutting about. Trying to be peacocks without the commitment.”

Lord Halberd gave an audible sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Well, what do we have, Mrs. Gubbins?”

The cook scratched her chin. “Well... there’s the onion pie I were savin’ for meself.”

“Onion pie,” Lord Halberd repeated.

“Yes,” Melvin said slowly. “A humble… yet dignified dish. A peasant's treasure. A—”

He paused. “Actually, I abhor onions. Ghastly weepers. But in pie form...?”

Mrs. Gubbins was already walking away, muttering about “nobles an’ their bloody minds changin’ every six seconds.” She returned a few minutes later with a steaming, bubbling pie, golden crust cracked just so on top, and an aroma that smelled like autumn’s hearth and rebellion.

Lord Halberd cut a slice and took a bite. He nodded once, approving.

Melvin nibbled with exaggerated delicacy. Then widened his eyes. “Oh. Oh my. My lord. It’s… sublime. Positively redemptive! Onion pie! Why, I always loved onion pie! My mother made it. Or—wait—perhaps it was the neighbor’s dog. But still! Wonderful memories.”

Lord Halberd finished his slice in silence.

And so it was that the rain continued its steady patter, the hearth crackled low, and the great hall of Dunbridge echoed not with argument, but with the gentle clink of forks and the belated loyalty of a man who would agree, quite vigorously, that whatever you liked was his favorite all along.