Chapter 26
Thomas is getting shell in the eggs again—I can hear the crunching—but if I don't finish this last row on Ruvan's hat right now my hands might never work properly again.
"That's too much shell." I don't look up from the knitting that keeps slipping. "The crunchy bits aren't seasoning. Pick them out."
Vice measures flour with a knife, scraping it level. Writes something down. Measures again. That tremor means she hasn't slept—not fear, just exhaustion where your body gives up on being steady.
"Bread's forgiving," I tell her, dropping another stitch. Have to go back. "Unlike eggs, which Thomas is currently destroying."
The kitchen smells like burnt toast. Twenty former Radiant Court members don't understand that bread keeps cooking after you take it out.
They check it. Put it back. Check again.
The smoke's getting thick and someone's going to panic when the alarm sounds, and I really need to finish this hat because his ears get so cold and what if—
"How many eggs per person?" Vice asks, pen ready. She's drawn a chart. Names down one side, boxes for quantities.
"Ridge eats four. Sometimes five after nightmares. You can tell by his shoulders—up near his ears means bad dreams." The yarn catches on my cracked thumb. "Finn needs at least two, scrambled wet. His teeth hurt with temperature changes. Don't tell him I know."
My hip catches the counter corner. Same bruise. The yarn tangles and my eyes water—from smoke probably, or exhaustion, not from this hat that needs finishing because winter's here—
"Your boots got worse." Arthur appears and the left sole hangs by a thread now.
"I've been busy." He grabs an apron, starts helping Thomas with the egg disaster.
"That's not an excuse for—" Count stitches. Lost track. "Vice, the toast. Actually on fire."
The morning fractures. Strawberry jam shatters red across the floor. My hands shake worse. Can barely hold the needles. Just this row, then bind off—
"I've returned."
Everyone freezes.
Joss stands in the doorway looking exactly like yesterday when she led me to be burned alive. Perfect leather coat, not a hair out of place. Carrying that ledger where she tracks everyone's weaknesses.
My stomach clenches. Twenty years with Ruvan. Twenty years of friendship, and yesterday she handed me over like I was inventory to manage.
"Breakfast. Sit. You're probably hungry."
She blinks. "I need to speak with Ruvan."
"After food. Everyone eats first. That's the rule." My fingers keep moving though they're numb now. Too much healing yesterday. Too much light poured out. "Sit."
"I don't think—"
"Sit." The word comes out harder than intended. "Vice, set a place. Not the chipped plate—Ridge pretends he doesn't have a favorite but he always takes that one."
Joss sits. Everyone watches. Thomas stands there with the spoon dripping shell and raw egg. The new people don't understand but they know something's happening.
"Tea?" Arthur's voice sounds pleasant if you don't know him. But I know that tone from childhood, right before something unfortunate happened to whoever hurt me.
"Water. You look dehydrated. That tight look around your eyes."
She stares. They all stare. I stare at the hat because if I look at her I'll remember her smile when she handed me over. How she said it was for Ruvan's own good.
Breakfast happens in pieces. People eat uncomfortably. Vice writes down exact burning times for each piece of toast. The former Radiant Court members try so hard they make everything worse, but that's how you learn.
"You gave me to them." Working the last stitch. Casual, like discussing weather. "To be burned from the inside. That seems unnecessarily mean."
"It was necessary." She's not eating. Her eggs are developing that skin. "For the guild."
"The guild needs regular meals and vegetables. Did you know Splice can't digest dairy? Years of stomach pain."
"This is exactly—" She waves at the kitchen, at former enemies sharing burnt toast. "This isn't the Shadow Guild."
"It is now." Standing takes effort. Arthur steadies me. "Tonight we're having dinner. Everyone. You'll sit and eat and see what you tried to destroy."
"I tried to save—"
"You tried to kill me because you thought caring makes people weak." The room tilts. When did I last eat? "But Ruvan's always been terrible. Now he's just terrible with meal schedules."
Ruvan appears and the temperature drops. He looks at Joss and something shifts in his face—hurt, fury, worse.
"Twenty years," he says quietly.
"Twenty years of watching you go soft."
"Here." I push the hat at him before someone starts bleeding in my kitchen. "Finished. Your ears get cold."
He looks at the hat, then puts it on right there with everyone watching. It fits perfectly, covering those ears that go red in winter.
"It's perfect," he says, voice rough.
"It's practical." I sit because standing is over. "Joss, eat your eggs. They have skin now."
She eats. We all eat. The worst breakfast imaginable—sixty people watching a friendship die over eggs and burnt toast.
"I thought I was helping," Joss says finally.
"You thought wrong." The hat makes him look younger even though his voice could cut glass. "I'm not weak. I'm practical. Dead people don't pay protection fees."
"That's sensible. Vice, the toast. Actual flames again."
Morning continues. Dishes happen. Someone starts lunch because time doesn't stop. One of the new people holds their shoulder wrong—old injury, favoring it. Their hip will hurt later.
"Exile," Ruvan tells Joss after dishes. "After dinner."
"After dinner?"
"We don't send people away hungry. That's cruel. Plus it's chicken night."
She stares. At Ruvan in his knitted hat. At me planning dinner for someone who tried to kill me. At Vice documenting toast data. At Arthur's boot finally surrendering completely.
"This makes no sense."
"That's why you have to go. You never understood that taking care of people doesn't make you weak. It makes them loyal."
"Like bread dough," one of the former Radiant Court calls out. "Too rough and it gets tough."
"Yes." Standing again—fail, retry. "Arthur, new boots. Today. No arguments. Joss, you're on vegetables."
She helps. Cuts carrots into perfect pieces while the kitchen fills with too many people. Ruvan keeps the hat on all day. Sometimes I catch him touching it—quick, checking touches.
Dinner happens. Shadow Guild, former Copper Hands, former Radiant Court, Arthur with no boots, and one traitor who thought feelings were weakness. The chicken vanishes. Someone remembers the beans. Life continues.
Joss leaves after dessert. Nobody stops her. She looks back once at Ruvan surrounded by people who kill for him but also remind him to eat lunch.
"I was wrong," she says.
"Yes," he agrees.
Then she's gone and we have dishes and breakfast planning and sixty people needing food.
"The hat suits you," I tell Ruvan later, after everyone's scattered and the kitchen smells like soap.
"My ears were cold."
Maybe that's enough.
Tomorrow we need groceries. Feeding sixty people costs everything. But Vice slept without stomach pain—she told me, smiled saying it. Thomas only got half the shell in today. Arthur's getting boots even if I have to drag him myself.
The hat sits properly on Ruvan's head, black wool with my hidden blue thread. His ears are warm. That matters.
Someone remembered the beans. Finn's holding his wrist wrong though—slept on it probably. I should make that salve.
Always something. But his ears are warm.