She raced to the cupboard and threw its door open. She hesitated, for just an instant, between the flour barrel and the knives hanging on the wall.
The knives first.
She grabbed four of the knives, two in each hand, and carried them over to the workbench next to the stove. Quickly, she gauged their balance. One of them, she decided, was suitable. That one—and her own little dagger—she placed on the edge of the workbench, blades toward her. The other three—much larger blades, one of them a veritable cleaver—she placed next to them, hilts facing out.
She hurried back to the closet and seized a small pan on a shelf. She lifted the lid to the barrel and dug the pan into the flour. A moment later, spilling a trail behind her, she poured the flour into the kettle. Quickly, using the ladle, she stirred the flour into the broth.
She was practically dancing with impatience. But she didn’t dare add more flour too quickly. She had to give the broth time to regain its heat.
When the liquid began roiling, she hurried back to the closet. More flour. Into the kettle. Stir it. Wait. Wait.
Again.
That’s enough, she decided. The meat broth was now a lumpy, viscous mess. And, within a minute, would be back to a boil.
She looked around. Draped on nearby pegs, she saw the thick, wettened cloths which the shopkeeper used to handle the kettle. She wrapped her hands in the cloths and picked up the kettle. Grunting with exertion—it was a big kettle, three-fourths full.
Yes. Barely, but—yes.
She replaced the kettle on the stove, leaving the cloths next to it. Then, she raced to the door and closed the latch. For a moment, she considered trying to brace the door, but decided against it.
Better this way. I don’t want them to have to work too hard to get through the door. Just hard enough. The latch will do for that.
She strode to the table onto which she had dumped the coins, and dragged it into the middle of the kitchen. Then, squatting down, she placed her shoulder under the edge and levered the table onto its side. It was a solidly built wooden table, large and heavy, and it made a great clattering sound when it hit the floor.
Upstairs, she heard the shopkeeper’s wife scream.
Damn you!
Faintly, she heard a voice coming from the street.
“In here!”
She heard the outer door burst open. Then, the sounds of many men pouring into the shop.
Now, louder:
“In here!”
She saw the door to the kitchen move, as someone tried to open it. The latch jiggled.
Very loud:
“She’s in here!”
Antonina stepped to the stove. She wrapped the wet cloths around her hands and gripped the kettle. Stood still, looking over her shoulder. Watching the door.
A loud thump. The door bulged. The latch strained, but held.
Very loud:
“Out of the way!”
Thundering footsteps.
Smash!
The latch splintered. The door flew open. A large body—then another—hurtled through. Three men came piling in behind. All of them were dressed in the rough clothes of street toughs, and all were holding cudgels in their hands.
The first man—the self-appointed battering ram—was already off-balance. He slammed into the upended table in the middle of the kitchen and bounced back, half-sprawled onto the floor. The man coming right behind tripped over him and stumbled to his knees, leaning over the edge of the table itself.
The three men behind him skidded into a pile.
Five men, tangled up, immobilized.
Antonina seized the kettle, turned, and heaved its contents onto the cluster of thugs.
Several gallons of boiling, flour-thickened meat broth spewed over the would-be killers.
Shrieks of agony filled the room. Half-crazed with pain and fear, the five men in the kitchen began tearing at their flesh, frantically trying to scrape off the scalding brew.
Couldn’t. Couldn’t! The flour made the broth stick to their skins.
Antonina ignored them. More men were in the room beyond. Two of them were jammed in the doorway to the kitchen, gaping at the scene.
She spun lightly, seized her own little dagger by the blade. That one, she knew, was perfectly balanced.