I look at the empty ladle in my hand. The pot is burned. I should be scraping the pot. I should—
Every new moon.
Keer is at the edge of the clearing. He hasn't moved.
He didn't eat.
This morning he didn't eat. He stood by the big structure and watched me cook and didn't come near the fire. And now—seventeen bowls and he's not one of them. The Alpha ofthis pack just gave his entire evening to a kid who was scared of the moon, and nobody brought him food, and he's sitting alone against a wall.
I look at the fire. The last of the haunch is still on the spit.
Well, someone has to.
I pull the best cut. The piece I was saving for stock—thick, fatty at the edge—falls apart when it's cooked right. I set it in the last clean pan with wild garlic and sage and a little rendered fat and hold it over the coals.
"What are you doing?" Kestria, at my elbow.
"Cooking."
"You just finished cooking."
"This is different cooking."
She looks at the meat. At the clearing edge where Keer is sitting alone. Back at me.
"Mel."
"Don't."
"You're cooking for Keer"
"I'm cooking for someone who didn't eat. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. One is personal and the other is—practical. This is practical. People need to eat. He's a person. Therefore."
"Therefore."
"Shut up."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face said plenty."
"My face is a neutral instrument of—"
"Your face is judging me and I'd like it to stop."
She grins. I hate her grin. I love her grin. I turn the meat over because the sear on the bottom is perfect and the garlic is crisping at the edges and the sage smell is cutting through the smoke and this is going to be really good, actually. The sear is right. The garlic is right. And I'm putting it on a plate and walking it across the clearing to—
The garlic. Focus on the garlic.
Kestria drifts away. The meat finishes. I put it on a clean wooden plate—where's a knife, he'll need a knife—find one, add it to the plate. The wild garlic has gone golden. The sage is dark, fragrant, warm.
I pick up the plate and walk across the clearing.
Nobody's watching. Everybody is watching. One of those. Packed dirt under my boots, warm plate in my hands, and the clearing is way bigger than it was thirty seconds ago. By the time I reach the edge, my pulse is loud in my neck.
