Page 4 of On Broken Bonds

Nyx

“Nyx, this looks like the best chicken yet!”

I carefully set the roasted bird down in the center of the table, my mouth already filling with saliva at the scent of it. It’s all roasted garlic and sage, a touch of butter crisping the skin. I knew Hilda was saving some of our dried garlic for a special occasion, for Pantheora, and when I woke up this morning to the smell of it filling the kitchens, I’d almost thought I was dreaming it.

Dreaming of a different time, when the kitchens didn’t just smell like potatoes and cabbage. When we could dine on meat frequently enough that the scent clung to the cabinets and ovens.

“Don’t thank me,” I say, standing up straight. My eyes skip to my sister, who sits perfectly still and straight in her chair, still dressed in a pretty dress even though we have no other dinner guests tonight, then slide to my servant, Hilda. “It’s all because of Hilda’s hard work.”

I've been working on my cooking skills lately, learning my way around the kitchen with Hilda. It’s not the path of a typical lady, but I’ve always liked keeping my hands busy. I’ve yearned for proof that I can still create beauty in a world determined to destroy it.

So my culinary skills are improving, but today was too special to leave me in charge.

“Well, then, thank you, Hilda,” Lyra says sweetly, her eyes darting over my shoulder. I turn as Hilda and Ivor come in, each of them holding the smallest of our silver platters, containing meager helpings of traditional Pantheora foods. Candied carrots. Wilting greens from our garden, plucked too soon from the rough soil.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Hilda says with a laugh, her hands shaking as she lowers the tray to the table. I stare at her long fingers, at the thin blue veins under her skin. The shape of those hands are as familiar to me as my own, but each year they change, gathering more age spots, the skin thinning as fine as tracing paper.

When she first came to work for our family, I was barely able to walk. As a baby, when I stumbled forward, only managing a few steps at a time, it was often Hilda’s arms that I fell into. Ivor followed shortly, and though we’ve had to dismiss all the other servants, the two of them have stayed.

We have nothing to offer them, aside from their rooms, a few coins, and our company. And yet, they’ve remained. I have no idea what we would do without them.

“Yeah.” Ivor laughs, the sound throaty and rich. White hair clings stubbornly above his ears, though the top of his head is bare, showing the same age spots as Hilda’s hands. “Just wait ‘til you taste it!”

Hilda swats at his arm, and the two of them, still laughing, turn back to the kitchens, likely to get the drinks. I should follow them, should help them with what’s left to bring to the table, but I can’t stop staring at the sight before me, the very edge of the too-large table where the four of us will sit.

The tablecloth Hilda unearthed from the house is ivory white, freshly ironed, and much too bright compared to everything else. A stranger could walk into this home and know this table cloth was hidden from the plight of the rest of the rooms. It practically glimmers against the few small trays that are pushed together in the center of the table, made to look like more than they are.

I have to fight not to notice the furniture around me and the disrepair it has suffered. The wooden chairs, once shining in the warm candlelight, now dull and cracked, are in bad need of oiling. The upholstery is worn and threadbare. Leather couches are dry and spider-webbed with a network of fine, white fissures, like once-fertile land left to drought.

The silverware is dull, and a single golden candlestick sits in the center of the table, holding a candle that does its best to light the room, but flickers weakly. Luckily for us, we’ve not yet lost the late summer sun, and the windows are still clear enough that the light shines in above us, casting elaborate shapes on the opposite wall.

That tall window used to be one of my favorite features of our home. Now, when I tip my head to look at it, I only catch sight of the cobwebs, of the grease smudged around the iron, filtering all the light that deigns to enter the room. With only two servants, we can’t even try to keep up with an estate of this size.

There should be music playing, now. There should be guests laughing and dancing. Our parents should be moving room to room, conducting the evening with the practiced hand of excellent hosts.

It’s a crude approximation of what this holiday is going to be. For a single heart beat, I wonder if it might have been less painful not to celebrate at all.

“I should help—” Lyra says, her voice wavering as though she can hear what I’m thinking. She starts to rise from her chair, and I force a smile onto my face, shaking my head as though that movement might clear the hollow of despair I feel.

“You sit back down,” Hilda orders, laughter still hanging on her voice when she and Ivor come shuffling back into the room. Lyra’s cheeks go pink and she does as Hilda says, tucking herself back into her seat. “Save that energy for when it’s time to clean up.”

I sit down across from her, and when she catches my eye, I do everything I can to communicate with my expression the happiness I do feel. Sure, I might be mourning what this holiday used to look like in this large house, but I’m fortunate.

I’m fortunate to have Ivor and Hilda, and my sister here with me. There are people with far less. People without a roof over their head, without their own freedom.

Even as I think it, I know they are Ivor’s words in my head, his many rousing speeches all permeating my mind. He might be sentimental, but he’s right. Even with how much it doesn’t feel it, we are the lucky ones.

Hilda finishes off the table setting with a small glass pitcher of deep maroon liquid— a mixture of beet and mulberry juice, honey, and mead—that she’s been preparing for weeks now, just for this occasion. It sloshes up the sides of the container and leaves streaks of ruby red behind for a moment.

“To our health,” Ivor says, after Hilda pours all of us a cup. He holds it up, and we all do the same, lifting our glasses to the ceiling, where a chandelier hangs, dusty and unlit. “And to family, no matter how small.”

“To our gods, may they be ever merciful,” Hilda adds, and despite the genuinely cheerful tone in her voice, those words send a shiver down the length of my spine.

Sure, some of the gods may be merciful, most of the minor ones, and perhaps one or two of the major ones. But we know as well as anyone that none of them have to be, and, in fact, many of them can be counted on to avoid mercy at all turns.

“With thanks to Soryn for light and patience, stars and guidance,” Ivor begins, starting the standard toast to the gods. The toast that my mother once began, at this very table.

“Much thanks to Terranis, for bounty and harvest, for nourishment and fertile lands,” Hilda continues, her cheeks apple-red, her white hair shining in the light of the single candle.