Epilogue
Brennick is holding the knife wrong again. Same angle he used on that merchant last week, which explains why the carrots look murdered rather than julienned.
"No, see, you're hacking. We talked about this." I waddle over, my belly bumping into the prep station. Eight months pregnant and I can't fit between the counters anymore. "Gentle rocking motion. Like you're—stop trying to intimidate the vegetables, they're already dead."
Twenty guild members watch from their stations. The morning knife skills class was supposed to be just for cooking, but everyone knows what they're really learning. I pretend not to notice when they take notes about grip strength.
"Miss Olivia, my carrots look angry," Davies calls out.
I check. They do look angry. Also, Davies's fingernails are looking brittle. When's the last time he had any vitamin C? I should make him eat an orange. Right now, actually—no, after the lesson.
"That's because you're—Emma, honey, watch the knife edges when you're refilling water—sorry, Davies, you're attacking them. Food prep isn't combat."
"Everything's combat," he mutters.
"Not until we've eaten. We have rules."
Emma, Arthur's daughter—still can't believe Arthur has a daughter, found out two months ago when she showed up at the door—weaves between the stations with her pitcher.
Eight years old and doesn't even blink at all the sharp objects.
Yesterday she asked why Uncle Ruvan never takes his hat off, even in the bath.
I didn't ask how she knew about the bath thing.
"Ten more minutes, then clear out for breakfast." The clock says seven-ten. Kitchen Two is already prepping on the other estate. We had to expand. Eighty-two people need to eat and one kitchen wasn't—oh, I need to check if the new bread ovens arrived.
"Tomorrow we're doing tomato roses," I announce, then immediately forget what I was saying because the baby just kicked my ribs. Hard. "Bring your detail knives. The small ones. Not your—you know what, just bring clean knives."
Brennick raises his hand. "Same knife."
"Then wash it first. The blood makes the tomatoes taste metallic."
At seven-twenty exactly, the breakfast rush starts. It always does now, ever since I posted the times everywhere. Even in the washrooms. Especially in the washrooms.
"Enforcement in the blue room!" I'm trying to plate eggs and direct traffic and my back is killing me. "Accounts in the library! New recruits—Timothy, are you listening?—conservatory with Timothy! Emma, tell your father the ledgers are by the toast!"
Arthur appears instantly. He always knows where Emma is. It's weird but useful.
"Already got them," he says. "Richards is here about territory."
"Send him to Kitchen Two. Marie made quiche."
"He's our enemy."
"Nobody's enemies after quiche. Oh, and tell Marie to use less salt. Henderson's looking puffy. Could be his kidneys."
The baby does something that feels like a full flip. I grab the stool Ruvan put in here. He's put stools everywhere. Last week he shadow-traveled someone into a wall for walking too fast near me, which seemed excessive but also I was carrying hot soup, so.
"Miss Olivia!" Emma bounces over with toast she definitely burned on purpose because she likes the crunch. "Can we paint after breakfast?"
"Later, sweetheart. I have five portraits this morning." Where did I put that list? It's probably in the studio. Everything's in the studio now.
The new studio—the light is perfect, north-facing, and I can fit twelve easels if I squeeze.
Which I can't right now because belly. The walls are covered in portraits.
Everyone wanted one after I hung the first batch in the main hall.
Davies looks constipated in his, but he insisted on that expression.
Arthur looks confused, which is just his face.
Marie with her cleaver. Timothy buried in ledgers.
All of them staring down at me while I work.
By the time I waddle to the studio—fifteen minutes now, used to take two, my ankles are so swollen—five people are waiting. Garrett's there too, when did he get here?
"Sit still," I tell Henderson. "I can't paint you properly if you keep checking your pockets."
"Sorry, Miss Olivia. Tallying."
"Later."
"But the shipment—"
"Later. Also, you're looking pale. Are you taking that iron tonic I gave you?"
Portrait, portrait, someone's nose is not that big but fine, portrait, Emma brings tea and sandwiches on that tray Ruvan made with the shadow-handles that adjust to her height, which is both sweet and unnecessarily complicated.
"Uncle Ruvan says lunch is in twenty minutes and you have to eat something first or he'll tell Arthur about the ladder."
"That was—how does he even—" I take the sandwich. My feet hurt. Everything hurts. "Never mind."
She shrugs. "He knows everything."
Lunch is going perfectly until they attack. I'm ladling soup, Emma's passing rolls, and there's crashing from the east entrance.
"Oh, come on. During lunch? Really?"
Half the room keeps eating while the other half goes to handle it. We worked this out week two because cold soup is depressing.
"USE THE GOOD WEAPONS," someone shouts. "SHE GETS MAD ABOUT THE FLOORS."
I keep serving. The soup's going to get cold if—crash—they better not have broken the new window. I just had that installed.
Davies appears, blood on his shoulder. His shirt's ruined. That was a good shirt.
"Handled. Nine attackers. Garden."
"Are they staying for lunch?"
"They... what?"
"Oh no, one of them has that gray look. You know, like when you haven't seen vegetables in weeks?" I pile bowls on a tray, nearly dropping it because my center of gravity is all wrong now. "Davies, is that one bleeding on my new rug? The blue one? I just—Emma picked that out."
"They tried to kill us."
"Well they're not doing it anymore, are they? Take them soup. The one with the tremor needs B vitamins. And you're getting blood everywhere—there's gauze in the drawer by the good spoons."
By two o'clock, six of the attackers have joined us. The other two are thinking about it over tea. One just needed someone to listen about his mother. She sounds awful, honestly.
I finally get back to the studio for Ruvan's portrait. He's already sitting there, wearing that hat I knitted him six months ago. It's getting ratty. There's a hole near the pom-pom. But he won't take it off, so.
"You fed our enemies again," he says, not moving.
"They were hungry." I mix paint, trying to get the burgundy right. The hat's faded. Or maybe my eyes are tired.
"They came to kill us."
"Inefficiently. Did you see how slowly they moved? Classic iron deficiency. Stevens might have scurvy."
"Which one is Stevens?"
"Fruit knife one."
His shadows curl around my easel legs, steadying it. They've been doing that lately. Little helpful things.
"You can't adopt every assassin who looks peaky," he says.
"I'm not adopting them. I'm feeding them. There's a difference." The baby kicks my ribs again. "Your child is training for something. I don't know what, but something violent."
"Or baking."
"Kneading is very aggressive, actually."
Emma appears with her little easel. "Can I paint too?"
"Of course. Set up there. Watch the light on his face. See how it hits the hat? The hat's important. For some reason."
Arthur hovers in the doorway. He tested all the paint for toxins yesterday. And the brushes. And the water.
"She's fine," I tell him.
"I know."
"You tested everything."
"Twice."
Emma's painting is mostly hat with a face underneath. She's given him a crown on top of the hat.
"Why a crown?" Ruvan asks.
"Because you're the king of shadows and soup time."
I laugh so hard I have to sit down. My back protests.
"That's going on the wall," I manage.
"Next to mine?" Emma asks.
"Right next to yours."
Arthur takes Emma for her language lessons—she's learning Mandarin from one of last week's attackers—and we're alone in the studio. Everyone watching from their portraits.
"Forty minutes before dinner prep," Ruvan says, pulling me carefully against him. The belly makes everything awkward.
He laughs into my hair. The hat tickles my forehead.
"Two more weeks," I say.
"Then chaos."
"Different chaos. Smaller. Louder. Speaking of which, the weapons vault next to the nursery?"
"For protection."
"Normal people use locks."
"We're not normal people."
No. We're really not. We're... I don't know what we are. A lot of people who eat together and sometimes kill other people but then feed those people too.
"You know what we need?" I say.
"What?"
"A family portrait. Everyone. All eighty-two of us."
"That's insane."
"I know. Thursday after we eat?"
"Obviously."
Outside, someone's arguing about knife placement for dinner. Someone else wants more butter. Emma's teaching the new recruits a song about vegetables that I'm pretty sure has threats in it.
I should check if the new recruits have any allergies. Henderson really was looking wheezy earlier. Could be the dust. Or maybe he's allergic to cats? We have six cats now. They just showed up. Like everyone else.
The baby shifts, pressing on my bladder.
"I need to start dinner prep soon," I say. "But first I should finish this portrait. The hat needs more detail. It's important, that hat. Even with the hole in it."
My feet hurt. But there's soup to serve.
There's always soup to serve.