Page 49
Malak comes through the back door with an armload of firewood, takes one look at my face, and sets the wood down so carefully it barely makes a sound.
“What happened?”
I point at the envelope because that’s all I can manage.
He picks it up, breaks the seal with his thumb, and wax crumbles like ash between his fingers. His eyes scan the page once, then again, and his jaw tightens in that way that means he’s trying not to break something.
“Council meeting tomorrow night.” He sets the letter down with the kind of control that’s more frightening than anger. “Regarding complaints of supernatural activity and public safety concerns.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Preston filed his complaint, and the council is taking it seriously.”
The chair catches me before my legs give out. The baby kicks again, frantic now, like tiny fists trying to punch through from the inside.
“What happens if I don’t go?”
“They’ll assume guilt. Send investigators. Shut down the bakery.” He moves to the window where morning light filters through bare branches. “Or worse.”
“What’s worse than losing the bakery?”
The silence stretches. His shoulders are too still, too rigid, and when he finally speaks his voice is flat.
“Exile. Banishment from town limits. The council can do that if they consider you a threat to the community.”
The words sit between us like stones dropped into deep water.
“Then I’ll go.”
“Not alone, you won’t.”
“No.”
“Kaia—”
“You’ll make it worse.” I grab the burned bread and start scraping at the charred crust even though it’s useless, even though my hands are still shaking. I need something to do with them before they start breaking things. “Preston knows what you are. If we walk in there together, we’re just proving his point.”
“I’m not letting you face them alone.”
“You don’t get a say in this.”
“Yes, I do.”
That quiet voice. The one that doesn’t argue because the decision’s already been made, the tone that says nothing in this world or any other will change his mind.
I want to argue. Want to tell him to stay away, keep himself safe, let me handle this mess I’ve made. But terror tastes like copper on my tongue, and the thought of walking into that room alone makes my chest tight enough that breathing takes effort.
The bell chimes.
Mrs. Chen pushes through the front door carrying a canvas bag, takes one look at my face, and sets the bag on the counter with the kind of gentleness people use around broken things.
“You got the summons.”
“How did you know?”
“Because mine arrived this morning too.” She pulls out a thermos, pours tea into two cups, and the smell is sharp and medicinal and old. “Emergency council session. They’re calling in everyone.”
“Everyone?”
