He had a mother who had labored three days to bring him into the world and still spoke of it with what sounded like pride rather than complaint.
Mab tried to imagine having a mother who told stories about her. The fragment of memory she carried—herbs, a voice singing—was too thin to hold any weight. She didn't know if the woman in that memory had wanted her, had fought for her, had told anyone about the circumstances of her birth. She didn't know anything at all.
Varek's hand appeared in front of her again. A piece of meat, glistening with fat.
She took it from his fingers without being told. His thumb brushed her lower lip, and she heard him exhale slowly against the back of her neck.
"What does Drogga mean?" Tibbs asked. He'd relaxed enough to reach for the porridge, spooning it into a bowl with movements that were almost casual.
"Laughing," Drogga said. "Our mother named me that because I came out smiling."
Annie's nose wrinkled. "Babies don't smile."
"This one did." Drogga thumped his chest. "It's in the clan records."
"It is not in the clan records," Varek said.
"It should be." Drogga winked at Annie. "I'll have Verity add it when we get back."
The hall had settled into a rhythm around them. Orcs finishing their meals, pushing back from tables, moving toward the doors. The fire crackled. Somewhere near the back of the hall, two warriors were arguing about something in a language Mab didn't recognize, their voices rising and falling without heat.
Varek's warmth seeped through the thin fabric and into her skin. When his hand moved, settling more firmly against the curve of her waist, she leaned into it instead of pulling away.
"The servants will be gathering in the courtyard soon," Varek said. His voice was pitched to carry to Tibbs and Annie as well. "Anyone who wants to say goodbye should do it now."
Tibbs froze, the strip of meat forgotten in his hand. Annie's head came up from where it had been drooping toward Tibbs's shoulder.
"Goodbye to who?" Tibbs asked.
"Anyone you know. Anyone you want to see before they walk south."
"I don't have anyone," Tibbs said. His voice was flat. "My mum's dead. The other stable boys weren't—we weren't friends."
Annie shook her head. "Me neither."
"Mab?" Varek's voice was quiet against her ear. "Anyone you want to see?"
She thought about it. Really thought, turning over the faces in her memory.
Hester was dead. The other kitchen workers—she knew their names. Knew their habits. Knew who snored and who stole extra bread and who cried in the root cellar when they thought no one could hear. But knowing wasn't the same as caring. She'd worked beside them for years and never once felt seen by any of them. Never once been anything but the scullion, the big one, the redhead.
"No," she said. "There's no one."
Varek's arm tightened around her waist. "Then we stay here," he said. "Until the courtyard clears."
Mab nodded. She should probably feel guilty for not wanting to bid farewell to people she'd known for decades. But the truth was simpler and sadder than guilt. She hadn't known them. She'd existed alongside them, moved through the same spaces, breathed the same air. That wasn't the same thing.
Annie's head drooped again, this time landing fully on Tibbs's shoulder. The boy didn't shrug her off. His hand came up, almost unconsciously, and patted her arm twice before settling back on the table.
"She's exhausted," Mab said quietly.
"They both are." Varek's chin brushed the top of her head as he looked toward the children. "There's a room prepared for them. Smaller than the lady's chamber, but warmer. Closer to the kitchens."
"Together?" Mab asked.
"Together. Unless they'd rather be separated."
Tibbs's head came up sharply. "No. We stay together."
