Chapter 23
The best part about waking up in Ruvan's bed is getting to watch him dress, even though I spend half the time worrying about his eating habits.
I prop myself up on one elbow, absolutely staring because forty-one looks ridiculously good on him.
Not in that never-worked-a-day way some lords have, where you suspect they've never lifted anything heavier than a wine glass.
More like one of those really good kitchen knives that just gets better with use.
Sharp where it needs to be, worn smooth at the handle, completely reliable even if you forget to oil it properly.
Which reminds me, I need to oil the kitchen knives.
He pulls on his trousers and I can count his ribs, which means he definitely skipped dinner again.
The man has abs at forty-one, which is frankly unfair to the rest of us, but also he needs more carbohydrates.
The scar along his ribs is doing that shiny thing in the morning light—the one from that business in the Tangles that he won't talk about.
I've memorized all his scars by now, which sounds creepy when I think about it too hard, so I don't.
"Two of the former Copper Hands got caught stealing food from the kitchens last night," he says, fastening his belt.
His fingers move with that particular grace that comes from twenty years of lockpicking, and honestly, watching him handle buckles shouldn't be this interesting.
"Guild law says they lose a hand for theft. "
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, and I once watched Quarrel try to pickle eggs in brandy.
" I pull his pillow against my chest, mainly because it smells like him and I'm becoming one of those people who sniffs pillows, apparently.
"They're stealing food because they're scared it'll disappear.
Have you seen how they eat? Like someone's going to snatch their plates away. Terrible for digestion."
"The law is the law, Olivia."
"The law is stupid if it doesn't account for people being terrified.
Also, have you checked if they're getting enough iron?
I bet they're all anemic." I watch him button his shirt, covering up all that nice skin that definitely needs more sun.
"Make them cook for a week. Full kitchen duty, all the meals.
They'll learn the food isn't going anywhere, everyone gets fed properly, and honestly, have you tasted what Splice considers seasoning?
The man thinks salt is spicy. We need the help. "
He pauses, shirt half-buttoned. "That's... actually quite clever."
"It's common sense. Cutting off someone's hand just means they can't chop vegetables properly, and then where are we?
Eating poorly-diced onions, that's where.
" I flop back against the pillows, which are silk and probably need special washing.
"What else? You've got that line between your eyebrows. "
"The Brass Hands want compensation for our expansion into their territory."
"Give them the building on Crayfish Lane. The one that smells like rotting cabbage. Oh, speaking of which, do we still have cabbage? I want to make that soup—sorry, focusing. Give them the smelly building."
"Why would I—"
"Make a big show of how valuable it is. Act like it pains you. They'll think they've won something important and spend six months trying to figure out why you wanted it. Meanwhile, they're stuck with a building that smells like dead vegetables."
The corner of his mouth twitches—his version of hysterical laughter. "And the River Guild wanting access to our canal routes?"
"Charge them in information instead of coin.
They know everything that moves through the waterways anyway.
Might as well make it official. Also, you need to eat actual breakfast today.
Not that awful bitter tea you pretend is food.
Real breakfast. With protein. And vegetables.
When's the last time you had a vegetable that wasn't garnish? "
"I eat."
"When I put a plate directly in your hands and stand there until you finish it. That's not eating voluntarily."
He crosses to the bed, leans down to kiss me. He tastes like that awful tea already, which means he's been up for at least an hour without eating anything solid. The man's going to get an ulcer.
"I'll eat breakfast."
"Liar."
"I'll try to eat breakfast."
"Still lying, but I appreciate the effort." I tug him down for another kiss, then push him away. "Go run your criminal empire. Try not to skip lunch. I'm making that thing with the chicken and the sauce you pretend you don't like but always eat seconds of."
Twenty minutes later, after I've made myself presentable—or at least made sure my dress is right-side out and I've gotten most of the flour out of my hair from yesterday—I head to the kitchen.
My plan is simple: bread that I started yesterday, eggs scrambled with that cheese from the place near the fishmonger that doesn't ask questions, maybe some of those sausages I hid behind the pickled beets where Quarrel won't find them.
But the kitchen already smells like food. Butter hitting hot iron, eggs cooking at exactly the right temperature where they'll be fluffy but not dry.
Ridge and Finn stand at the stove, Ridge carefully flipping eggs with the concentrated face of someone disarming something explosive, while Finn butters toast like it might run away if he doesn't pay attention.
The butter is pooling in the little holes in the bread, which means they've gotten the temperature exactly right.
They both freeze when they see me.
"We wanted to give you a morning off," Finn says, his voice cracking slightly on 'morning.' Sixteen is such an awkward age, all elbows and feelings you don't know what to do with. "You're always cooking for everyone."
"We learned your recipes," Ridge adds, staring at the eggs like they might explain why his ears are turning red. "The bread's in the oven—the overnight rise one you showed us. And we made your scrambled eggs with the cheese mixed in, not on top, because you said that makes them grainy."
I burst into tears.
"Oh no," Finn says, dropping the butter knife with a clatter that probably wakes half the house. "We did it wrong. We can start over—is it the eggs? I knew we should have used the other pan—"
"You didn't do it wrong." I wipe my face with my sleeve, definitely smearing flour everywhere because when isn't there flour on me?
"This is just—you learned my recipes. You gave me a morning off.
Do you understand how—this is nicer than that time Ruvan had those people murdered for me.
Actually definitely nicer because you did this just to be kind, not because anyone was threatening anybody. "
They exchange that look teenage boys do when confronted with crying women—part panic, part confusion, part desperate wish to be literally anywhere else.
"It's not a big deal," Ridge mumbles, but his ears are practically glowing now.
"Teach me how you're doing the eggs," I say, coming to look over his shoulder and definitely not still sniffling. "Your flip technique is better than mine. Are you doing that thing with your wrist? I can never get that right."
After breakfast—which I don't cook, which tastes perfect, and which I make sure both boys eat proper portions of because they're still growing—I go to check the garden.
Nothing much will grow this late in the season, but I've found some winter herbs that might survive.
Rosemary definitely, maybe thyme if we're lucky.
The dirt feels cold under my fingers, that particular texture that means it needs compost. There are footprints in the fresh-turned soil near the wall, deep ones.
Probably Tooth—he's been heavier since he started eating regularly, which is good, he was too skinny.
Or maybe rabbits. Do rabbits leave footprints that deep?
How much do rabbits weigh? Something to look up later.
My skirts keep catching on the thorny bushes by the wall, pulling me back toward the house.
Must be the wind. Or the fabric. Silk blends do that sometimes, don't they?
Static or something. My fingers are going numb anyway.
I head inside, stopping in the kitchen to check if anyone remembered to soak the beans for dinner—they haven't—before settling into the library with my knitting basket.
The hat is almost finished. Black wool, practical and warm, with my secret—I've worked a thin line of deep blue thread into the inside band where it won't show unless you really look.
Like signing my name where only I'd know.
Ruvan needs something warm for winter. The man never dresses properly for weather, always acting like those long leather coats are sufficient when anyone can see his ears go red with cold by October.
It's November now and he's still wandering around bare-headed like winter is optional.
I hold up the hat, running my fingers over the stitches.
The yarn is soft but sturdy, the kind that will hold up to actual use.
The crown is perfect, the band neat and even.
Just needs another few inches and the finishing.
It has to be done today. Tomorrow is the new moon, and while I'm trying very hard not to think about what the Radiant Court has planned—something about purification through burning which sounds unpleasant and probably unsanitary—some part of my brain keeps whispering what if you don't get another chance?
Stupid thought. Probably just pre-cycle anxiety. Everything will be fine. Ruvan has plans, and backup plans, and probably backup plans for the backup plans.
I reach for the black yarn and find... nothing.
"Oh, come on." I dig through the basket. Brown yarn that would make lovely mittens, grey yarn for scarves, that awful mustard yellow I bought by accident and keep meaning to return. No black.