Chapter 21
Someone's crying in the bathroom on the second floor.
Not the quiet, dignified kind either—the ugly, snotty kind that echoes off tiles and makes everyone uncomfortable.
I should probably check on them, but I'm elbow-deep in bread dough and if I stop kneading now it won't rise properly, and then what?
Forty-seven people need breakfast and half of them just got forcibly adopted last night.
The estate's kitchen—my kitchen now, I suppose—smells like yeast and possibility.
Morning light streams through windows that actually close, highlighting flour dust floating in the air.
Everything's so clean. No mold plotting revolution in the corners, no suspicious puddles that might be water or might be something worse.
Just gleaming copper pots and counter space that goes on forever and a stove where all the burners work.
"Morning," Ridge says from the doorway, looking like he hasn't slept.
His eyes have that puffy thing going on that means he's been up worrying about something.
Probably the former Copper Hands people we absorbed last night.
Well, Ruvan absorbed them. With violence.
Systematic violence, from what I gathered from the blood on his clothes.
"There's coffee," I tell him, nodding toward the pot. "The good stuff. Found it in a tin with actual labels."
He pours himself a cup, adds enough sugar to make teeth ache just watching. His teeth are going to fall out at this rate. "The new ones are restless."
"Of course they are. They just got involuntarily relocated. Like cats to a new house." I punch down the dough with perhaps more force than necessary. "Have they eaten?"
"I don't think they know they're allowed to eat."
"That's ridiculous. Everyone's allowed to eat. It's a basic human right." I look at the mountain of dough I've been stress-making since dawn. "How many came over? From the Copper Hands?"
"Twenty-eight survivors."
Survivors. Such a specific word. Not members, not people. Survivors. Like they're refugees from Ruvan's efficiency.
"Right. So forty-seven total now." I start shaping loaves, hands moving without thought. "Plus us makes forty-nine. I'll need more eggs."
Ridge shifts, that uncomfortable movement that means he wants to say something but doesn't know how. His shadows ripple slightly—he's got them too, though not as many as Ruvan. They pool at his feet like nervous puddles.
"They're angry," he finally says. "Some of them. About their friends."
"Dead friends."
"Yes."
"Well, anger needs food too. Especially anger. Empty stomachs make everything worse." I cover the shaped loaves with a clean cloth—we have clean cloths now! Multiple ones! "When did Ruvan get back?"
"Maybe five hours ago. Went straight to his study."
"Has he eaten?"
Ridge's silence is answer enough.
"Has he slept?"
More silence.
"For heaven's sake." I wipe my hands on my apron—my actual apron that I found in a drawer, not just a paint-stained dress. "Watch the bread. If it over-rises, it'll taste yeasty."
The hallway to Ruvan's study feels longer this morning.
Maybe because I keep having to navigate around former Copper Hands members who don't know where to stand.
They cluster in corners, whispering to each other.
One has a black eye. Another's favoring his left leg. They all stop talking when I pass.
"Morning!" I say brightly to a cluster near the stairs. "Breakfast in an hour. There's coffee in the kitchen if you need caffeine now."
They stare at me. The one with the black eye actually backs up a step.
"It's just coffee," I clarify. "Not poisoned or anything. Though I suppose that's what someone who poisoned coffee would say." I consider this. "But I didn't. Scout's honor. Do criminals have scouts? We should have scouts. Very organized, scouts."
I leave them to their confusion and continue to Ruvan's study. The door's closed but not locked—I've learned the difference. Locked makes a specific click. This is just closed, which means he's either working or dead. Possibly both, knowing him.
The study smells like old paper and that metallic tang that follows him after violence.
He's at his desk, head down on his arms, still wearing last night's clothes.
There's blood in his hair. Whose blood? Not his, probably.
He'd mention if it was his. Or would he? He's very bad at mentioning injuries.
Papers scatter across the desk—territory maps, names with lines through them, numbers that probably represent people who no longer exist. One paper has a coffee ring on it. When did he have coffee?
"Oh, Ruvan." The words come out soft.
He doesn't stir. His breathing's deep and even, the kind that means his body finally overruled his brain. How long since he last slept properly? Two days? Several? The shadows under his eyes have shadows.
I fetch a blanket from the parlor—one of the good ones that doesn't smell like warehouse mold—and drape it carefully over his shoulders. He shifts slightly, mumbles something that might be a name or might be a threat, then settles.
His hand's resting on a list of names. Some crossed out. Others circled. At the bottom, in handwriting that gets progressively worse, notes about integration. About who can be trusted. About who might cause problems. About me.
"Keep O. separate from hostile elements," it says. "Shadows will alert if—" The sentence trails off, like he fell asleep mid-thought.
My chest does something warm and tight. He's planning my safety while literally passing out from exhaustion. When did I become someone worth protecting? When did he become someone I want to tuck into bed and feed soup to?
The morning light through his window catches the dried blood in his hair. Is that going to stain? Blood's so difficult to get out once it sets. He'll need cold water and probably some of that special soap we bought. The one Gray Streak insisted smelled "purple."
"Sleep," I whisper, adjusting the blanket. "I'll handle breakfast."
Back in the kitchen, the bread's risen perfectly. Ridge has also acquired several helpers—Finn, Gray Streak, and two former Copper Hands who look like they're not sure if they're allowed to be here.
"Eggs," I announce. "All of them. And bacon. Do we have bacon?"
"I'll check the cold storage," Finn volunteers, already moving.
"And butter! Lots of butter. You can't have proper breakfast without butter." I start pulling out pans, calculating portions. "Everyone sits together. No separate tables. No us and them. Just breakfast."
"That might not—" Gray Streak starts.
"Breakfast," I repeat firmly. "Together. With introductions. And no weapons at the table."
"No weapons?" One of the former Copper Hands speaks up—lanky kid named Thorne who can't be more than twenty, with exhausted eyes that mean he's been awake all night. "We're supposed to just... trust you?"
"You're supposed to eat eggs and toast like civilized people who happen to professionally murder for a living." I start cracking eggs into a massive bowl. "Trust is optional but encouraged."
They help, eventually. Tentatively at first, like they expect to be stabbed for touching the good plates. But hunger wins over suspicion, and soon I've got an efficient breakfast assembly line. Someone who tried to kill us yesterday is now buttering toast with focused intensity.
"Plates on the left," I direct. "Cups on the right. No—your other right. That's it."
The dining room fills with the strangest collection of people I've ever tried to feed. Shadow Guild on one side, former Copper Hands on the other, everyone eyeing each other like violence might break out over scrambled eggs. Which, knowing this group, it might.
"Right!" I stand at the head of the table—Ruvan's seat, but he's unconscious so I'm borrowing it. "Introductions. I'm Olivia. I paint things and make bread and apparently run involuntary breakfast meetings. You are?"
Silence. Someone's fork scrapes against their plate.
"The eggs will get cold," I point out. "Cold eggs are tragic. Anyone?"
"Aldwin," one finally mutters. Former Copper Hands, from the look of his defensive posture. "I do—did—warehouse security."
"Excellent! Aldwin does warehouse security. Who's next?"
It's painful, extracting names from suspicious people, but eventually everyone mumbles their name and function.
We have two knife specialists (concerning), a poison expert named Vesper (very concerning), someone called Harrow who handles explosives (extremely concerning), and one person named Corvus who just says "logistics" and refuses to elaborate (mysteriously concerning).
"See? Now we're all acquainted." I pass the bacon platter to the person who definitely tried to knife Finn last week. "More toast, anyone?"
That's when it happens.
A woman I don't recognize—former Copper Hands, definitely, from the way she holds herself apart—stands abruptly. Her chair screeches against the floor.
"This is sick." Her voice shakes with rage. "You're sitting here serving breakfast like you didn't get half my guild killed last night."
"I didn't—"
"You did." She's moving now, around the table, and several people are standing but not fast enough. "If you hadn't—if the Shadow King hadn't gone soft for some artist—"
She lunges. I see the knife—where did she even hide that?—and my brain helpfully notes it needs sharpening while my body tries to remember how dodging works. The blade catches my arm, slicing through my sleeve and skin beneath. Hot pain blooms immediately.
Then everything happens very fast.
Ridge is there, shadows slamming the woman into the wall hard enough to crack plaster. The knife clatters away. My shadows—the ones that live with me now—go arctic cold and race toward the study. Someone's shouting. Someone else is trying to stop the bleeding with a napkin, which seems inadequate.
"Nobody move." Ridge's voice has gone flat and dangerous. His shadows pin the woman. "Nobody fucking move."