Chapter 19
His boots have holes.
That's what my brain decides to focus on while staring at my dead brother who isn't dead.
Two holes, actually—one near the left toe where I can see his sock (also holes), and another at the heel that's going to let in water when it rains.
When did he last have dry feet? Does the Tide Runner guild not have a cobbler?
What about healers? Criminal organizations should have healers, all that violence must cause injuries—
"Livvy?" Arthur says again, and that nickname hits hard. Nobody else ever called me that.
"Your boots have holes." The words fall out because apparently that's what we're discussing. Not the six years of grief. Not the nights I talked to his grave that wasn't even his grave. Just the holes in his boots that someone really should fix.
"That's what you—" He takes a step forward and several shadow blades materialize at his throat. Right. Family reunion at shadow-sword point. Very normal. Very manageable.
The shadows around me go cold. Not regular cold—angry cold. They're rising off my shoulders, reaching toward him.
"Oh no, stop that." I push at them like they're misbehaving cats. "He's not—well, he IS terrible but not stabbing terrible—please don't murder my brother."
The shadows coil tighter, clearly disagreeing. One keeps reaching forward.
"Down. Bad shadows. We don't stab family members." I'm literally batting at concentrated darkness while my not-dead brother watches. "Even family members who pretended to be dead for six years. Even then."
"You can control them?" Arthur's voice cracks slightly. He's staring at the shadows like they might eat him, which honestly, they look ready to try.
"Control is a very generous word for what's happening here." Another shadow tendril snakes toward him. I grab it—actually grab it, like it's rope instead of whatever shadows are made of. "They're having feelings. Strong ones."
Ruvan hasn't moved since we reached the gates. Standing perfectly still in that way that means he's deciding exactly how to kill someone and in what order.
"Inside," he says. One word. The shadows immediately shift, pushing at my lower back.
"I can walk on my own—" But they're nudging harder, actually lifting my feet slightly off the ground.
The lift reminds me of when Arthur used to pick me up when I was eight and couldn't reach the good apples.
He'd hold me up and—no. Not thinking about that now. "This is unnecessary. He's my brother."
"Your dead brother," Ruvan says flatly. "Who leads the guild that attacked us yesterday."
Oh. Right. That's... that's actually quite bad, isn't it?
"We need to discuss this." Arthur's trying to look authoritative, which is hard when you're surrounded by Shadow Guild members doing that synchronized shadow-weapon thing. Do they practice that? They must practice. "The Radiant Court—"
"Inside," Ruvan repeats. The shadows push harder, one actually picking up my left foot and moving it forward for me.
"Stop helping me walk, I know how legs work." I turn back to Arthur. "You're coming to dinner."
Everyone stops. The shadow weapons pause mid-threat. Even my helpful walking shadows seem confused. Someone in the back actually coughs from surprise.
"Dinner?" Arthur blinks at me.
"Yes. Dinner. The meal that happens in the evening.
You remember those, right? Or did dying make you forget how eating works?
" My voice is getting that high pitch it does when I'm upset but I keep walking.
"We have a dining room now. With actual chairs.
And plates that match. Well, mostly match. Some have chips but—"
"Livvy, we can't—"
"You've been dead for six years. You're staying for dinner."
The walk to the house blurs. What if we don't have enough food? Does the dining room smell weird? Old houses always smell weird—
The dining room definitely smells like lemon oil and dust. Someone's lighting candles—when did that happen?
The table's too long for any reasonable dinner party, but then again, we're not reasonable people.
Behind me, everyone's filing in with that awkward shuffle of enemies trying to figure out seating arrangements. Someone's sword clanks against a chair.
"Tide Runners on that side." I point without looking. "Shadow Guild over there. Nobody sits next to anyone they've recently tried to kill."
"That eliminates most of the seating options," Gray Streak mutters.
"Then get creative with your not-murdering-each-other placement." I'm already heading to the kitchen because standing still means thinking and thinking means crying. "And nobody kills anyone while I'm cooking. I'll know. The shadows tell me things now."
The kitchen's beautiful and functional and I have no idea what I'm doing.
My hands are shaking. There's a chicken in the cold storage.
Vegetables that someone bought. Potatoes with eyes—need to cut those out, potato eyes are poisonous.
Did Arthur know that? He used to eat them anyway, said the poison built character—
The shadows hover, reaching toward the knife I'm using, another attempting to turn on the oven but doesn't understand knobs.
"You turn it, you don't push—no, that's too high, we're roasting not cremating." They adjust, somewhat. "Better. Thank you."
I check the sitting room while the pan heats. Everyone's staring at walls. Gray Streak's cleaning his already clean blade. One of the Tide Runners—young, nervous, definitely underfed—keeps glancing at the door. Someone's stomach growls. Nobody acknowledges it.
"There are books if anyone wants to... no? Okay then."
Back to the kitchen where the chicken's starting to brown. Every twenty minutes for basting or it gets dry, and dry chicken is just sad. Remember when Mother made that really dry chicken for Arthur's birthday and he ate it anyway, said it was perfect even though we all knew it was terrible—
The shadows help, somehow. They hold the basting brush while I check the vegetables. Are these carrots soft enough? Arthur hates crunchy carrots in roast, always picked them out—
Second check on the sitting room—Gray Streak and a Tide Runner are comparing knives. Someone drops a fork. The clatter echoes. Everyone freezes, then slowly relaxes.
"Those aren't for stabbing each other!"
They look guilty but keep discussing blade quality in undertones. The young one's posture is terrible though. Shoulders hunched like that will give him back problems. Does their guild have healers for that? They should—
The chicken smells like rosemary and denial.
I check it obsessively—internal temperature has to be perfect or everyone gets food poisoning.
Wouldn't that be a perfect end to this dinner?
Arthur shows up alive, everyone gets sick.
Actually, he got food poisoning once from bad fish.
Spent two days insisting he was fine while obviously dying—
Finn's trying to make tea. The water's not even warm yet and he's already adding leaves.
"The water needs to actually boil first, Finn."
"I thought if I added them early—"
"That's not how—Arthur used to do that too, thought he was saving time but—" My voice cracks. "Just. Boiling water first. Then warm the pot—you have to warm the pot—then tea."
"Your shadows are watching me," he whispers.
They are. Looming behind me, cooler now with my anxiety. One keeps patting my shoulder which should be creepy but it's actually kind of nice?
"They're protective. Just don't make sudden movements with the kettle."
Back to check potatoes—fork should go in easily but not too easily or they're mush. These are perfect. The shadows helpfully point at something. Oh, they set a timer. That's... concerning but useful.
The dining room setup is wrong—the shadows have been "helping." Nothing's where it should be.
"That's not—spoons go here, forks—" I fix place settings while trying not to think. "It matters. We're not barbarians. Arthur, remember when you ate soup with a fork just to make me mad? You said it was—" I stop. Can't finish that thought here.
When everything's ready—chicken at exactly the right temperature though I nearly dropped the thermometer—I carry the roast out like this is normal. Like we always have enemies for dinner.
The table's ridiculous. Tide Runners on one side looking uncomfortable, Shadow Guild on the other looking murderous, and me at the head like I'm hosting the world's worst dinner party. Which I suppose I am.
"Right." I start carving, gripping the knife carefully. "Who wants dark meat?"
Silence. Someone's breathing too loud. Or maybe that's me.
"Arthur, you always liked dark meat." My voice sounds almost normal if you ignore the way it goes high at the end. "Still? Or did being dead change your food preferences?"
"Livvy—"
"Remember when you convinced me dark meat was from evil chickens? I didn't eat it for a year." The knife goes through smoothly. "Pass the potatoes—yes, to him, he's not contagious. Probably. Are you contagious, Arthur?"
Nobody moves.
"The potatoes. Those round things. In the bowl." I point with the carving knife, which makes several people tense. "Someone pass them to someone else. That's how dinner works."
Finn finally, carefully, passes the potatoes to the nervous Tide Runner. They both look like they're handling explosives. The kid actually drops one. It rolls across his plate.
"See? Dinner. We're having dinner." I serve myself even though eating seems impossible. "Now, Arthur, explain why you're not dead while everyone eats. Also, elbows off the table. You too, Gray Streak."
Several elbows quickly leave the table.
"The Radiant Court knows about you," Arthur says instead of explaining anything useful. He's using the salad fork for his chicken. Six years and he forgot—or maybe Tide Runners don't have proper forks?
The shadows around me spike, going sharp and cold. One knocks over the salt.