The vegetables need washing. The mold needs killing. These people need feeding. And someone needs to check if they have actual bedding because I have concerns.
Just another Tuesday, really. Well, no. Last Tuesday I sold a painting. This Tuesday I'm meal-planning for assassins.
Except now I know Night Manager's real name. And that name comes with a title that should terrify me. Shadow King. The Shadow King. Of the whole city apparently.
Should be scary, that. The kind of scary that makes smart people move to different cities.
But honestly? Shadow King or not, the man clearly hasn't been eating properly. And that's what's really bothering me. All that power and no one makes sure he eats breakfast?
I start the soup. Bone broth this time. Good for recovery. Good for people who don't take care of themselves. The bones go in first—I managed to get good ones from the butcher, with lots of marrow. That's where the nutrition is. Does anyone explain this to shadow users? Do they have nutrition classes? They should have nutrition classes.
Good for Ruvan.
The name feels weird to think. Too personal for someone who walks through shadows. Too real for someone who was dying in my lap twenty minutes ago. But it's his name and he has to eat regardless of what I call him.
"More carrots," I tell Davis. "Healing takes calories. And protein. When's the last time any of you had proper protein? Not tavern meat. Real protein with all the bits that make your body work right."
He doesn't argue. None of them do. They just help, and pretend they weren't ordered to lock me out, and we all politely ignore that their terrifying master is currently sleeping off a healing that probably should have killed me to perform. But it didn't. I'm fine. Tired, but fine. He needed it more.
The soup simmers. Needs more salt. Always needs more salt with bone broth. The compound slowly becomes less of a health hazard. Someone should oil those door hinges. The squeaking must drive them crazy. And somewhere upstairs, the Shadow King is hopefully sleeping properly. On his side, ideally. You're supposed to sleep on your side after traumatic healing. I think. I should check on him. Make sure he's drinking water.
But first, vegetables. These carrots won't peel themselves. And someone needs to teach Finn the difference between dicing and hacking things into uneven chunks. Uniform pieces cook evenly. That's just basic kitchen science. I should make extra soup. There's never enough soup.
I'll check on Ruvan after—Ruvan. Still strange to think. After I get the soup properly started. Plain broth first. Nothing heavy. His stomach won't be ready for solids yet. That room needs better pillows. The ones he has looked flat. Flat pillows cause neck pain.
So many things to fix. The mold situation is urgent. Those hinges need oil. We need hand soap by the kitchen sink—how are they cooking without hand soap? But that's alright. One thing at a time. Soup first, then mold, then proper hygiene supplies.
The others must be worried. Do assassins worry? Of course they worry. Everyone worries. Extra bread will help. And where did I put that honey? The young one with the cough needs honey and lemon.
Chapter 9
I wake up and immediately wish I hadn't.
Not because of pain—that's gone, which is Problem Number One. Years of shadow poisoning, gone. My bones don't ache. My blood doesn't taste like copper. The constant stabbing behind my left eye has vanished.
I've been healed. Without consent. By a civilian who makes soup.
The mess this creates makes me want to murder someone. Now I have to recalculate poison tolerance, adjust shadow exposure schedules, redo the entire death timeline I've been working with. I had charts. Detailed ones.
My room smells wrong. Lavender. Clean cotton. Someone changed my sheets while I was unconscious. Someone opened the curtains. There's actual sunlight contaminating my space, highlighting dust motes I've successfully ignored for years.
Water on the nightstand. In a clean glass. Not even the cracked mug I usually use.
Someone's going to die for this.
I dress. Everything responds correctly—hands steady, shadows obedient, body moving without the usual grinding protest. This is wrong. I'm supposed to be dying on a schedule. There were plans. Contingencies. Joss had already started interviewing replacements.
The hallway's been mopped. Actually mopped. I can see wood grain.
"Morning, boss." Ridge appears, carrying firewood. He looks healthy. Alert. Yesterday he was dying of pneumonia. "She says you need broth. Just broth. Stomach won't handle solids yet."
"She says."
My hand shoots out before the thought finishes. Shadows slam him against the wall hard enough to crack plaster. The firewood scatters.
"She says?" I let shadows crawl up his throat. Not squeezing. Yet. "Since when do my killers take dietary advice from civilians?"
His eyes bulge. Good. Fear still works.
