"She's insane," someone mutters.
"She's kind," Vice corrects, finally taking her hand off her stomach. "Which might be the same thing in this world."
My legs give out—too much magic, not enough food, the usual—and Ruvan catches me, pulling me against him. His shadows wrap around us both, warm like heated blankets.
"The oven," I mumble against his chest. "Someone needs to turn it off. Did I leave something in there? Everything's fuzzy."
"What?"
"Can't remember what I was baking. But the timer's probably going off. Someone's going to smell smoke and panic. Remember when I burned those rolls and the whole kitchen smelled like charcoal for days?"
He holds me tighter, and I feel him shake slightly. His stomach growls though, confirming the food situation.
"We need to get the injured back," Arthur says. "Olivia needs rest before she tries to heal anyone else."
"But that one's toenail—"
"Will survive the walk," Ruvan finishes. "We're going home."
Home. The estate with seven bathrooms and two kitchens and hopefully someone remembered to check the stove.
"Vice needs to come too," I insist. "Her knee keeps popping. That's early arthritis if she doesn't address it. And the ulcer. And honestly, when's the last time she slept? Look at those eye bags."
Vice stares at me. "You want to heal me? After everything?"
"Your body's falling apart from stress. You can barely eat without pain. And that eye twitch is getting worse. Of course I want to heal you. But first everyone needs actual food. Did anyone eat lunch? Nobody ever eats proper lunch when there's drama happening."
"She's serious," Arthur tells the room. "She will hunt you down with nutrients."
"It's not forcing if you need it," I protest, but I'm already falling asleep against Ruvan's chest. "Wake me when we get home. Someone needs to check the kitchen. And Tuesday is bean night. Someone better have soaked the beans."
The last thing I hear is Ruvan's voice, rough: "She was worried about dinner prep. They had her on an altar and she was worried about whether anyone remembered to soak the beans."
And then darkness, warm and safe, that smells like leather and shadow and home.
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 leasttwo, 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."
