Concealing a rising blush by raise her glass of whiskey to her lips, Vera let a long draught wash over her tongue as Shay paid her a compliment. She fought the surge of awkwardness bubbling within, and told herself that he meant it in good nature. When the glass lowered, she ventured over to the gas stove, ever since 1900, not that she would remember, but her mother told her, how different the gas stoves were compared to the old cast iron stoves her mother cooked on when she was a little girl, one that required wood or coal. With modern conveniences becoming the norm, Vera wasn't surprised to see the black metal 1905 range in Shay's apartment. 

"I'll cook us dinner. You've done enough today for me." She allowed herself to steal a quick glance at Shay as a small smile danced across her lips. "I hope you don't care for my singing, it helps me to focus more while I cook."

         As she went about the small kitchen, Vera found a pot, and a knife. She rummaged through his cupboards, looking for any spices, to which she found two. Counting herself lucky he had those, rosemary and thyme, Vera set about filling the pot full of water from the sink, where she set it on the burner to boil. All the while, a soft hum filled the room, and a curious look in her eyes appeared, one that had not arose since before her mother's death. There, a gleam of familiarity, and a kindred nature overcame her, she felt right at home, as if she were cooking for Samuel and mother again.

"[i]In a neat little town they call Belfast
Apprentice to trade I was bound
And the many's the hours sweet happiness
I've spent in that neat little town

but a sad misfortune's come over me
Which caused me to stray from the land
Far away from me friends and companions
Betrayed by the black velvet band

Her eyes they shone like diamonds
I thought her the queen of the land
And her hair, it hair hung over her shoulder
Held up with a black velvet band

I took a stroll down Broadway
Intending not long for to stay
When who should I meet but this pretty fair maid
Come traipsing along the highway

She was both fair and handsome
Her neck it was white like a swan
And her hair, hung down from her shoulders
Held up with a black velvet band[/i]"

            The song was a familiar one, as she had heard it sang in the Tawdry by many a drunken Rougher. She wasn't certain of the origins, but deemed it to be from Ireland at least at the mention of Belfast. It weren't as if she belted out the song, rather, her voice maintained a soft tone, one that bordered on a whisper at certain points, while that wasn't the entirety of the song that she knew, Vera seemed to lose focus on the song as she began to dice up the potatoes, onion and carrots. What an odd sight it may appear for Shay. A man such as himself, that had no familiarity from women in his life, outside that of family of course, for a woman like Vera to be standing in his kitchenette, preparing him supper while he relaxed from the excitement of the day. Occasionally, she stole a curious glance at him when she nursed her whiskey, the strong bite comforting her in the lack of opium for the night. 

               With the purchase of a roast, her knife carved away raw pieces, and set them aside. When the water began to boil, she turned it low to simmer; careful not to scald herself, she added the minced vegetables slowly as a languid hum began again. Seasoning the meat accordingly with salt, pepper, and the two spices she found in the cupboard, she added the meat as well, with half a garlic glove. Leaning against the wall, as she kept an eye on the stew, Vera finished off the rest of her whiskey. A reddening of her cheeks from the burn of the alcohol, left Vera feeling a little warm. 

"It'll be a little bit before the stew is done," she said abruptly, turning to face Shay before setting the tumbler in the sink. "I'd like to have that bath now, that is, if I can trust you to watch over the stew? If it bubbles, just give it a slow stir so it won't burn or stick to the pot." Vera proceeded over to the bags filled with their purchases from the day, and begun out a pair of clothes to wear to bed from the brown sack.

"I can draw up my own water, too." She mused, Vera wasn't a dainty woman who needed constant guidance, as Sam may have implied. After all, she had shot Billy Bellamy dead in the alley without a second thought, and she had intended to shoot Rory Jepson dead in the street four nights ago.