"I don't—this is a breach of protocol—"
"Eating is a breach of protocol?" I set the plate down firmly. The lamp flickers with my annoyance. "That's ridiculous. Your boss needs better rules. When do you take breaks? Do you get breaks? Even the market workers get rest periods."
"The Shadow King has rules—"
"Then the Shadow King needs better rules." I ladle soup into a bowl. Yesterday's barley and vegetable. The bay leaves have done their work, leaving everything fragrant. The carrots are cut small, just how they should be, soft enough to mash with a spoon. Steam rises, fogging my view. "What's your name?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Fine. Gray Streak it is. For your hair. Though you need a trim. The back's getting shaggy. Do you cut it yourself? That never goes well. I tried once. Looked like I'd been attacked by angry scissors."
He touches his hair self-consciously, then remembers he's holding stolen goods. A jar of pickled beets escapes and rolls toward my feet. I pick it up, notice the lid's dusty. When did I buy pickled beets?
"Eat the soup before it gets cold." I sit across from him, grateful to be off my feet. My nightgown catches on the rough table edge—need to sand that down. "And before your colleagues see you."
A muffled thud outside suggests that ship has sailed. Someone just walked into my rain barrel. The one I keep meaning to move because everyone walks into it.
"Subtle," I call toward the window.
Gray Streak puts his head in his hands. "This is a disaster."
"This is dinner." I stand again, using the table for support. My hip bumps the corner—same bruise, new pain. "How many are out there?"
"Please don't—"
But I'm already at the window, nightgown swishing around my ankles. Four shapes trying to blend with walls. One is definitely the young nervous one from this morning. He's bouncing slightly. Cold does that.
"You might as well come in. It's cold, and I have soup. With barley. Filling stuff, barley."
"No." Gray Streak knocks his chair over standing. "Absolutely not. This is already—"
"Already what? Friendly?" I'm getting more bowls, reaching past him to the cabinet. Have to press close—he smells like leather and that specific combination of cold air and shame. "You've been watching me since yesterday. We're practically neighbors. Neighbors visit."
The window slides open. A woman with what looks like an extensive knife collection peers in, disgusted. One of the hilts catches on the window frame.
"This is your fault," she hisses at Gray Streak.
"The fault is not feeding you properly." I hand her a bowl. The ceramic's warm. "Come in. Shoes off though. I mopped yesterday. Well, I moved dirt around with a wet mop. Same thing."
And somehow I have four guild members in my kitchen, removing their boots like scolded children. Wet socks. Everysingle one has wet socks. Don't they know about wool? Or waterproofing?
"This is not happening," Knife Woman mutters. She has lovely cheekbones though. Sharp enough to cut glass. Probably comes in handy professionally.
"Honey or jam?" I ask, already cutting more bread. Crumbs everywhere. I'll be finding them for days. "The jam's strawberry. Made with actual strawberries, which sounds obvious but you'd be surprised."
The young one raises his hand tentatively. There's paint under his thumbnail—wait, no, that's just dirt. When's the last time he had a proper wash? "I like jam."
"Of course you do." I beam at him. He has that look of someone who was raised on sweetness and hope before life got complicated. "You look like someone who appreciates preserves."
Gray Streak has given up. He's just eating soup with grim determination. The fourth shadow—a young woman with sensible braids—is methodically consuming bread like she hasn't seen carbs in weeks. Her wrists are too thin. You can see the bones move when she chews.
"When's the last time any of you had a proper meal?"
They exchange looks. The kind that means the answer is depressing and probably involves the word 'yesterday' being optimistic.
"Right. New system." I stand, only swaying slightly. Have to squeeze past Gray Streak to reach the counter—my kitchen wasn't built for this many people. My soft hip bumps his shoulder. He freezes. "I'll leave different foods for different shifts. Labeled. Organized. No more hovering in doorways looking hungry like abandoned puppies."
"We can't—" Gray Streak starts.
