"You can and you will." I'm already planning, moving around the cramped space, accidentally brushing against weapons and elbows. "Unless there are allergies? Dietary restrictions? Religious observations? That thing where milk makes your stomach angry?"
"I don't like turnips," the young one offers. He's got a slight cough. Nothing serious, but I bet he's not getting enough vitamin C.
"Nobody likes turnips. That's just good sense." I pat his shoulder. He freezes. His coat's damp. They're all damp, actually. Don't they know about weather-appropriate clothing? "Anything else?"
They sit there, trained killers in my kitchen, looking lost. Gray Streak has jam on his thumb and doesn't seem to notice. Knife Woman's stolen extra bread—several pieces tucked by her bowl like she's hoarding for winter. Sensible Braids has found the cheese and is cutting pieces with focused intensity. Her hands shake slightly. Hunger or cold. Both probably.
"This is nice." I settle back down, having to navigate around their legs. My kitchen's too small for this many people. We're all knees and elbows and barely contained weapons. "Do you visit each other during shifts? You should. For morale. Share a meal sometimes. Know who's watching your back."
"We're not supposed to acknowledge each other on duty," Gray Streak mumbles into his soup. Steam fogs his face.
"That's terrible." The lamp flickers. I reach over to adjust the wick, my sleeve brushing Knife Woman's shoulder. She tenses. "You should have gatherings. Share meals. Winter festival celebrations."
"Winter festival. For assassins." Knife Woman sounds faint. She's stopped eating to stare at me.
More shadows at the window. Dawn shift arriving early, drawn by the light and the complete breakdown of protocolhappening in my kitchen. Someone's face appears, disappears, appears again. Probably having an existential crisis.
"More people! I'll put another kettle on."
"No." Gray Streak stands. "We're leaving. Now. Before—"
The temperature drops. Shadows in my kitchen deepen, gaining weight and opinion. My lamp dims without flickering. Even the steam from the soup seems to pause mid-curl.
"Before what, exactly?" The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere.
He materializes by my stove—the sad man from the moonlight. The one I painted. The one whose exhaustion made me want to bake things. My heart does a little skip, which is probably inappropriate given that everyone else looks ready to soil themselves.
"I can explain," Gray Streak starts.
"Please don't." The sad man pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's two in the morning. I have the Merchant Coalition at dawn. And my protection detail is having... what is this?"
"Oh! It's you!" I stand too fast, grab the table. My hip bumps Gray Streak again. Poor man can't catch a break. "From the other night! How's your sleep? Any better? Did you try the chamomile? Your eyes look worse. More bags. Designer bags, but still."
Complete silence. Knife Woman drops her spoon. It clatters on the stone floor like an announcement of doom.
"You know each other?" Gray Streak whispers.
"We've met." His tone suggests this is generous. "Briefly."
"Well, sit down. You're making everyone nervous." I'm already getting another bowl, having to squeeze past the young one, who presses himself against the wall like I might be contagious. "You look exhausted. Still. When's the last time you ate? And you should really talk to your Shadow King person about feeding these people better. Look at them—Gray Streak'sall hollow cheeks, this one's got the beginning of a cold—" I gesture at the young one, who tries to stop mid-sniffle, "—even she's too thin under all that leather. It's bad for them. Hungry people can't fight properly."
The temperature drops further. The young one makes a tiny squeak. Might be the bread, might be terror. Hard to tell.
"My Shadow King person," he repeats slowly.
"Whoever's in charge." I ladle soup carefully, making sure to get plenty of barley. He needs the iron. They all need iron, actually. When's the last time any of them had proper nutrition? "Someone needs to make sure they eat. Give them breaks. Maybe even guild protection funds? Do assassins get compensation for injuries? They should. Dangerous work."
"I'll be sure to pass along your feedback." His tone could freeze the soup mid-ladle.
"Good! Here, sit. Are you their overseer? You seem very... supervisory." I push the bowl toward him, noticing his collar's crooked. My fingers itch to fix it. "All that looming and dramatic entrance stuff. Very commanding."
He sits like it physically pains him. Probably does—that much dramatic posturing can't be good for the back. He takes a spoonful of soup. Pauses. His face does something complicated.
"The vegetables are cut properly small," he observes.
"Of course they are. I'm not an amateur." I watch him eat with satisfaction. He's trying to be dignified about it but he's hungry. They're all so hungry. When did feeding people become controversial? "See? You needed this. You're probably skipping meals too. Coffee for breakfast, nothing for lunch, whatever's convenient for dinner. That's not sustainable."
"Someone should look into that." He finishes the soup faster than someone pretending not to be starving should. There's color in his cheeks now. Amazing what actual food does.
