She pauses. "The Radiant Court's been asking questions. About her."
"Let them ask."
"They're doing more than asking. Movement near the merchant quarter." She meets my eyes. "I could coordinate with our eastern contacts while you rest. Keep her safe here."
Same suggestion. Different angle.
"She is safe. Here. With me."
"You can't watch her every moment. You're exhausted."
"We'll discuss it tomorrow."
She nods, disappears into shadows colder than mine.
The kitchen glows warm at two in the morning. I follow it.
Olivia's surrounded by cooling bread. Four loaves, maybe five. Counter covered in flour. Hair escaping its pins. She looks up, eyes straight to the blood.
"You're dripping on my clean floors."
Not "what did you do" or "who did you kill." Concern for the floors.
"Sorry."
"Yours or someone else's?"
"Someone else's."
"Multiple someones?"
"Yes."
"Tea then." Already moving to the kettle. "Chamomile or mint?"
"Whatever."
I stand there, blood drying, watching her make tea like this is normal. Like I didn't absorb an entire guild through systematic violence. My vision doubles—two Olivias, then one.
"Sit. You're still dripping."
I sit. Nearly miss the chair. She puts tea in front of me—chamomile—then returns to her bread.
"Stressful night?"
"Territory expansion."
"That sounds complicated." She shapes dough with practiced movements. "Is Mr. Morrick alright? His fingers looked painful."
"He'll survive."
"He seemed nice, if overwhelmed." She glances over. "You have blood in your hair."
"Occupational hazard."
"We should get you better work safety equipment."
I almost laugh. "I'll look into it."
