Chapter 5
Someone's in my kitchen dropping things. The good mixing bowl by the sound of it—that specific ceramic ring when it hits the floor. Not the chipped one. Of course not.
I blink at the ceiling, still fuzzy from sleep. More clattering. Something metal now. Probably the soup ladle. Or maybe the whisk? No, whisks don't sound that heavy.
"Oh, I hope they found the jam." The words come out mumbled into my pillow.
I left it on the far left of the windowsill, properly labeled.
Strawberry with just a hint of lemon. Emmerson's wife makes it, and it costs more than I should spend, but the morning light through that glass jar just makes me happy.
My feet find the floor—cold, always cold in this place.
The boards creak in that specific way that means winter's settling into the wood.
I shuffle toward the stairs, grabbing my shawl on the way.
The paint-stained one that's more hole than wool at this point.
There's cerulean on the left corner from last week's sky disaster.
My hip catches the doorframe with a solid thump. Same spot as always. The bruise from yesterday says hello. Really should hang a cushion there. Or move the doorframe. One of those.
"You could have just asked," I call down, wrapping the shawl tighter.
It doesn't quite meet in the front anymore.
Too many stress-eating sessions with good cheese.
"I left bread out yesterday. And this morning.
Even added those apple slices. The ones cut in little moons. No need to raid the whole kitchen."
The crashing stops. Complete silence. The kind that makes you aware of the paint brushes soaking in the sink and the half-finished portrait drying in the corner.
I navigate the stairs slowly, one hand on the wall.
My legs are still wobbly from yesterday's healing, and wouldn't that be embarrassing—falling down my own stairs in front of a burglar.
Each step sends cold shooting through my bare feet.
Should have worn slippers. Do I own slippers?
I own paintbrushes that could be slippers if you squint.
The kitchen glows faintly from moonlight through the window—the one that never latches properly.
I keep meaning to oil those hinges. There's a figure frozen by the counter, arms full of wrapped parcels and jars.
Food everywhere. My seedcake has rolled under the table where the floor dips, probably collecting dust bunnies.
I know him. Not the young nervous one who took the apple slices earlier—that one had lovely manners, even thanked the empty air.
This is the older shadow who's been standing in that doorway across the street since last night.
Gray streaks through dark hair that needs a trim.
Scar across his left eyebrow that pulls when he frowns.
Which he's doing now. Currently looking like I've caught him committing treason.
"Oh good, you found the seedcake." I step around a fallen loaf, steadying myself on the counter. The wood's worn smooth where I always grab it. "I wasn't sure if it was too dry. The top got quite brown. There's a timer somewhere but I think it might be sentient and hiding."
He doesn't move. Just stands there, arms full of my food, probably calculating escape routes. His coat's too thin for this weather. October coat in November air. That's how you catch cold.
"I wasn't—this isn't—" He stops. There's really no good way to explain being elbow-deep in someone's pantry at midnight.
"You've been out there since last night.
" I pull out a chair, using both hands because the trembling hasn't quite stopped.
"Standing in that doorway. The draft comes straight through there, you know.
Mrs. Halloway used to complain before she moved.
You must be freezing. Look, your hands are red. Sit down."
"I can't sit down. I'm on duty."
"You're on duty in my kitchen with my seedcake." I light the lamp. It flickers twice before catching—magic exhaustion making everything difficult. "I think we've moved past formalities. Sit. I'll make tea. Your knuckles are chapped. Do you not own gloves? Or lotion? Both. You need both."
I have to sit first, just for a moment. The room spins slightly. He shifts, concerned, and I notice he favors his left side. Old injury. The kind that aches when weather changes.
"Are you well?"
"Just tired. Used too much—" No, can't say that.
"Stayed up painting. You're the one who's been standing in the cold refusing perfectly good food.
I added extra portions this morning. For you specifically.
Do you know how frustrating that is? Like having a cat who won't eat the expensive food you bought specially. "
"We're not supposed to interact with—"
"With the person you're protecting? Seems inefficient." The kettle's heavier than I remember. Water sloshes. "How can you protect someone if you're hungry? When's the last time you ate actual food? Not tavern scraps. Real food with vegetables in it."
"This morning." But his face says otherwise, and there's a hollow look around his eyes that speaks of skipped meals and coffee for dinner.
"Sugar or honey?" I'm already cutting bread, hands only shaking a little. The knife goes through the soft crumb with that perfect sound of fresh-baked goods. "I have both. The honey's local. From those hives outside the wall. You can taste the wildflowers in it."
"I don't—this is a breach of protocol—"
"Eating is a breach of protocol?" I set the plate down firmly. The lamp flickers with my annoyance. "That's ridiculous. Your boss needs better rules. When do you take breaks? Do you get breaks? Even the market workers get rest periods."
"The Shadow King has rules—"
"Then the Shadow King needs better rules.
" I ladle soup into a bowl. Yesterday's barley and vegetable.
The bay leaves have done their work, leaving everything fragrant.
The carrots are cut small, just how they should be, soft enough to mash with a spoon.
Steam rises, fogging my view. "What's your name? "
"I can't tell you that."
"Fine. Gray Streak it is. For your hair. Though you need a trim. The back's getting shaggy. Do you cut it yourself? That never goes well. I tried once. Looked like I'd been attacked by angry scissors."
He touches his hair self-consciously, then remembers he's holding stolen goods. A jar of pickled beets escapes and rolls toward my feet. I pick it up, notice the lid's dusty. When did I buy pickled beets?
"Eat the soup before it gets cold." I sit across from him, grateful to be off my feet. My nightgown catches on the rough table edge—need to sand that down. "And before your colleagues see you."
A muffled thud outside suggests that ship has sailed. Someone just walked into my rain barrel. The one I keep meaning to move because everyone walks into it.
"Subtle," I call toward the window.
Gray Streak puts his head in his hands. "This is a disaster."
"This is dinner." I stand again, using the table for support. My hip bumps the corner—same bruise, new pain. "How many are out there?"
"Please don't—"
But I'm already at the window, nightgown swishing around my ankles. Four shapes trying to blend with walls. One is definitely the young nervous one from this morning. He's bouncing slightly. Cold does that.
"You might as well come in. It's cold, and I have soup. With barley. Filling stuff, barley."
"No." Gray Streak knocks his chair over standing. "Absolutely not. This is already—"
"Already what? Friendly?" I'm getting more bowls, reaching past him to the cabinet. Have to press close—he smells like leather and that specific combination of cold air and shame. "You've been watching me since yesterday. We're practically neighbors. Neighbors visit."
The window slides open. A woman with what looks like an extensive knife collection peers in, disgusted. One of the hilts catches on the window frame.
"This is your fault," she hisses at Gray Streak.
"The fault is not feeding you properly." I hand her a bowl. The ceramic's warm. "Come in. Shoes off though. I mopped yesterday. Well, I moved dirt around with a wet mop. Same thing."
And somehow I have four guild members in my kitchen, removing their boots like scolded children. Wet socks. Every single one has wet socks. Don't they know about wool? Or waterproofing?
"This is not happening," Knife Woman mutters. She has lovely cheekbones though. Sharp enough to cut glass. Probably comes in handy professionally.
"Honey or jam?" I ask, already cutting more bread. Crumbs everywhere. I'll be finding them for days. "The jam's strawberry. Made with actual strawberries, which sounds obvious but you'd be surprised."
The young one raises his hand tentatively. There's paint under his thumbnail—wait, no, that's just dirt. When's the last time he had a proper wash? "I like jam."
"Of course you do." I beam at him. He has that look of someone who was raised on sweetness and hope before life got complicated. "You look like someone who appreciates preserves."
Gray Streak has given up. He's just eating soup with grim determination. The fourth shadow—a young woman with sensible braids—is methodically consuming bread like she hasn't seen carbs in weeks. Her wrists are too thin. You can see the bones move when she chews.
"When's the last time any of you had a proper meal?"
They exchange looks. The kind that means the answer is depressing and probably involves the word 'yesterday' being optimistic.
"Right. New system." I stand, only swaying slightly.
Have to squeeze past Gray Streak to reach the counter—my kitchen wasn't built for this many people.
My soft hip bumps his shoulder. He freezes.
"I'll leave different foods for different shifts.
Labeled. Organized. No more hovering in doorways looking hungry like abandoned puppies. "
"We can't—" Gray Streak starts.