"There are books if anyone wants to... no? Okay then."
Back to the kitchen where the chicken's starting to brown. Every twenty minutes for basting or it gets dry, and dry chicken is just sad. Remember when Mother made that really dry chicken for Arthur's birthday and he ate it anyway, said it was perfect even though we all knew it was terrible—
The shadows help, somehow. They hold the basting brush while I check the vegetables. Are these carrots soft enough? Arthur hates crunchy carrots in roast, always picked them out—
Second check on the sitting room—Gray Streak and a Tide Runner are comparing knives. Someone drops a fork. The clatter echoes. Everyone freezes, then slowly relaxes.
"Those aren't for stabbing each other!"
They look guilty but keep discussing blade quality in undertones. The young one's posture is terrible though. Shoulders hunched like that will give him back problems. Does their guild have healers for that? They should—
The chicken smells like rosemary and denial. I check it obsessively—internal temperature has to be perfect or everyone gets food poisoning. Wouldn't that be a perfect end to this dinner? Arthur shows up alive, everyone gets sick. Actually, he got food poisoning once from bad fish. Spent two days insisting he was fine while obviously dying—
Finn's trying to make tea. The water's not even warm yet and he's already adding leaves.
"The water needs to actually boil first, Finn."
"I thought if I added them early—"
"That's not how—Arthur used to do that too, thought he was saving time but—" My voice cracks. "Just. Boiling water first. Then warm the pot—you have to warm the pot—then tea."
"Your shadows are watching me," he whispers.
They are. Looming behind me, cooler now with my anxiety. One keeps patting my shoulder which should be creepy but it's actually kind of nice?
"They're protective. Just don't make sudden movements with the kettle."
Back to check potatoes—fork should go in easily but not too easily or they're mush. These are perfect. The shadows helpfully point at something. Oh, they set a timer. That's... concerning but useful.
The dining room setup is wrong—the shadows have been "helping." Nothing's where it should be.
"That's not—spoons go here, forks—" I fix place settings while trying not to think. "It matters. We're not barbarians. Arthur, remember when you ate soup with a fork just to makeme mad? You said it was—" I stop. Can't finish that thought here.
When everything's ready—chicken at exactly the right temperature though I nearly dropped the thermometer—I carry the roast out like this is normal. Like we always have enemies for dinner.
The table's ridiculous. Tide Runners on one side looking uncomfortable, Shadow Guild on the other looking murderous, and me at the head like I'm hosting the world's worst dinner party. Which I suppose I am.
"Right." I start carving, gripping the knife carefully. "Who wants dark meat?"
Silence. Someone's breathing too loud. Or maybe that's me.
"Arthur, you always liked dark meat." My voice sounds almost normal if you ignore the way it goes high at the end. "Still? Or did being dead change your food preferences?"
"Livvy—"
"Remember when you convinced me dark meat was from evil chickens? I didn't eat it for a year." The knife goes through smoothly. "Pass the potatoes—yes, to him, he's not contagious. Probably. Are you contagious, Arthur?"
Nobody moves.
"The potatoes. Those round things. In the bowl." I point with the carving knife, which makes several people tense. "Someone pass them to someone else. That's how dinner works."
Finn finally, carefully, passes the potatoes to the nervous Tide Runner. They both look like they're handling explosives. The kid actually drops one. It rolls across his plate.
"See? Dinner. We're having dinner." I serve myself even though eating seems impossible. "Now, Arthur, explain whyyou're not dead while everyone eats. Also, elbows off the table. You too, Gray Streak."
Several elbows quickly leave the table.
"The Radiant Court knows about you," Arthur says instead of explaining anything useful. He's using the salad fork for his chicken. Six years and he forgot—or maybe Tide Runners don't have proper forks?
