"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 yearsold 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. Lastweek 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?"
