More silence.
"For heaven's sake." I wipe my hands on my apron—my actual apron that I found in a drawer, not just a paint-stained dress. "Watch the bread. If it over-rises, it'll taste yeasty."
The hallway to Ruvan's study feels longer this morning. Maybe because I keep having to navigate around former Copper Hands members who don't know where to stand. They cluster in corners, whispering to each other. One has a black eye. Another's favoring his left leg. They all stop talking when I pass.
"Morning!" I say brightly to a cluster near the stairs. "Breakfast in an hour. There's coffee in the kitchen if you need caffeine now."
They stare at me. The one with the black eye actually backs up a step.
"It's just coffee," I clarify. "Not poisoned or anything. Though I suppose that's what someone who poisoned coffee would say." I consider this. "But I didn't. Scout's honor. Do criminals have scouts? We should have scouts. Very organized, scouts."
I leave them to their confusion and continue to Ruvan's study. The door's closed but not locked—I've learned the difference. Locked makes a specific click. This is just closed, which means he's either working or dead. Possibly both, knowing him.
The study smells like old paper and that metallic tang that follows him after violence. He's at his desk, head down on his arms, still wearing last night's clothes. There's blood in his hair. Whose blood? Not his, probably. He'd mention if it was his. Or would he? He's very bad at mentioning injuries.
Papers scatter across the desk—territory maps, names with lines through them, numbers that probably represent people who no longer exist. One paper has a coffee ring on it. When did he have coffee?
"Oh, Ruvan." The words come out soft.
He doesn't stir. His breathing's deep and even, the kind that means his body finally overruled his brain. How long since he last slept properly? Two days? Several? The shadows under his eyes have shadows.
I fetch a blanket from the parlor—one of the good ones that doesn't smell like warehouse mold—and drape it carefully over his shoulders. He shifts slightly, mumbles something that might be a name or might be a threat, then settles.
His hand's resting on a list of names. Some crossed out. Others circled. At the bottom, in handwriting that gets progressively worse, notes about integration. About who can be trusted. About who might cause problems. About me.
"Keep O. separate from hostile elements," it says. "Shadows will alert if—" The sentence trails off, like he fell asleep mid-thought.
My chest does something warm and tight. He's planning my safety while literally passing out from exhaustion. When did I become someone worth protecting? When did he become someone I want to tuck into bed and feed soup to?
The morning light through his window catches the dried blood in his hair. Is that going to stain? Blood's so difficult to get out once it sets. He'll need cold water and probably some of that special soap we bought. The one Gray Streak insisted smelled "purple."
"Sleep," I whisper, adjusting the blanket. "I'll handle breakfast."
Back in the kitchen, the bread's risen perfectly. Ridge has also acquired several helpers—Finn, Gray Streak, and two former Copper Hands who look like they're not sure if they're allowed to be here.
"Eggs," I announce. "All of them. And bacon. Do we have bacon?"
"I'll check the cold storage," Finn volunteers, already moving.
"And butter! Lots of butter. You can't have proper breakfast without butter." I start pulling out pans, calculating portions. "Everyone sits together. No separate tables. No us and them. Just breakfast."
"That might not—" Gray Streak starts.
"Breakfast," I repeat firmly. "Together. With introductions. And no weapons at the table."
"No weapons?" One of the former Copper Hands speaks up—lanky kid named Thorne who can't be more than twenty, with exhausted eyes that mean he's been awake all night. "We're supposed to just... trust you?"
"You're supposed to eat eggs and toast like civilized people who happen to professionally murder for a living." I start cracking eggs into a massive bowl. "Trust is optional but encouraged."
They help, eventually. Tentatively at first, like they expect to be stabbed for touching the good plates. But hunger wins over suspicion, and soon I've got an efficient breakfast assembly line. Someone who tried to kill us yesterday is now buttering toast with focused intensity.
"Plates on the left," I direct. "Cups on the right. No—your other right. That's it."
The dining room fills with the strangest collection of people I've ever tried to feed. Shadow Guild on one side, former Copper Hands on the other, everyone eyeing each other like violence might break out over scrambled eggs. Which, knowing this group, it might.
"Right!" I stand at the head of the table—Ruvan's seat, but he's unconscious so I'm borrowing it. "Introductions. I'm Olivia. I paint things and make bread and apparently run involuntary breakfast meetings. You are?"
Silence. Someone's fork scrapes against their plate.
