Kilorn puts an arm out, stopping me at the door to the kitchen. He leans forward into my space, until I can’t avoid his eyes. Green as I remember. They narrow in concern. “You’re okay?”
Usually, I would nod, smile away the insinuation. I’ve done it so many times before. I pushed away the people closest to me, thinking I could bleed alone. I won’t do that anymore. It made me hateful, horrific. But the words I want to pour out of me won’t come. Not for Kilorn. He wouldn’t understand.
“Starting to think I need a word that means yes and no at the same time,” I whisper, looking at my toes.
He puts a hand to my shoulder. It doesn’t linger. Kilorn knows the lines I’ve drawn between us. He won’t push past them. “I’m here when you need to talk.” Not if, when. “I’ll hound you until you do.”
I offer a shaky grin. “Good.” The sound of cooking fat crackles on the air. “I hope Bree hasn’t eaten it all.”
My brother certainly tries. While Tramy helps her cook, Bree hovers at Mom’s shoulder, picking strips of bacon right out of the hot grease. She swats him away as Tramy gloats, smirking over a pan of eggs. They’re both adults, but they seem like children, like I remember them. Gisa sits at the kitchen table, watching out of the corner of her eye. Doing her best to remain proper. She drums her fingers on the wooden tabletop.
Dad is more restrained, leaning against a wall of cabinets, his new leg angled out in front of him. He spots me before the others and offers a small, private smile. Despite the cheerful scene, sadness eats at his edges.
He feels our missing piece. The one that will never be found.
I swallow around the lump in my throat, pushing the ghost of Shade away.
Cal is also noticeably absent. Not that he will stay away long. He’s probably sleeping, or perhaps planning the next stage of . . . whatever’s going on.
“Other people need to eat,” I scold as I pass Bree. Quickly, I snatch the bacon from his fingers. Six months have not dulled my reflexes or impulses. I grin at him as I take a seat next to Gisa, now twisting her long hair into a neat bun.
Bree makes a face as he sits, a plate in hand piled with buttered toast. He never ate this well in the army, or on Tuck. Like the rest of us, he’s taking full advantage of the food. “Yeah, Tramy, save some for the rest of us.”
“Like you really need it,” Tramy retorts, pinching Bree’s cheek. They end up slapping each other away. Children, I think again. And soldiers too.
Both of them were conscripted, and both of them survived longer than most. Some might call it luck, but they’re strong, both of them. Smart in battle, if not at home. Warriors lie beneath their easy grins and boyish behavior. For now I’m glad I don’t have to see it.
Mom serves me first. No one complains, not even Bree. I dig into eggs and bacon, as well as a cup of rich, hot coffee with cream and sugar. The food is fit for a Silver noble, and I should know. “Mom, how did you get this?” I ask around bites of egg. Gisa makes a face, wrinkling her nose at the food lolling about in my mouth as I speak.
“Daily delivery for the street,” Mom replies, tossing a braid of gray-and-brown hair over her shoulder. “This row is all Guard officers, ranking officials, and significant individuals—and their families.”
“‘Significant individuals’ meaning . . .” I try to read between the lines. “Newbloods?”
Kilorn answers instead. “If they’re officers, yeah. But newblood recruits live in the barracks with the rest of the soldiers. Thought it was better that way. Less division, less fear. We’re never going to have a proper army if most of the troops are afraid of the person next to them.”
In spite of myself, I feel my eyebrows rise in surprise.
“Told you I had a specialty,” he whispers with a wink.
My mother beams, putting the next plate of food in front of him. She ruffles his hair fondly, setting the tawny locks on end. He awkwardly tries to smooth them down. “Kilorn’s been improving relations between the newbloods and the rest of the Scarlet Guard,” she says proudly. He tries to hide the resulting blush with a hand.
“Warren, if you’re not going to eat that—”
Dad reacts faster than any of us, rapping Tramy’s outstretched hand with his cane. “Manners, boy,” he growls. Then he snatches bacon from my own plate. “Good stuff.”
“Best I’ve ever had,” Gisa agrees. She daintily but eagerly picks at eggs sprinkled with cheese. “Montfort knows their food.”