Page 16 of The Broken Dawn

"I should go," Jakob said, gathering his books. "Evening chores." He hesitated, then added, "Thank you, Harald." The name still felt dangerous on his tongue, but no longer quite so foreign.

Harald's smile was quick and bright. "Until tomorrow's tactical class?"

"Until tomorrow," Jakob agreed, then remembered himself. He snapped to attention. "Your Highness."

The cottage smelled of potato soup and the remnants of the morning's coffee, warm and familiar. Jakob settled at the table, wood worn smooth from use. His mother ladled out bowls, steam rising in the lamplight. The soup was full of last year's potatoes, fresh onions and carrots, and the broth was rich with cream and pale yellow bits of butter from their cows. If there was a lack of meat, the richness more than made up for it.

Rachel bounced in her seat, dark curls escaping the ribbon she'd tried to tame them with. She reached for the dark rye bread their mother had baked that morning, breaking off a piece with disregard for the proper way to slice it. "Mama, remember how Papa used to say breaking bread brings good fortune?"

"Your father said many things," Sarah replied, her accent thickening slightly as it always did when Chaim was mentioned. She spooned the soup with careful precision, ensuring equal portions. "Most of them from books rather than common sense."

"But his books were wonderful." Rachel's eyes lit up. "I found his old copy of Spinoza today, the one with all his notes in the margins. His thoughts are so beautiful, even if I can barely read the handwriting."

Jakob caught the slight tremor in his mother's hand at the mention of their father's books. They'd sold as many as they could after his death, needing the money that they'd bring far more than they needed the leather-bound volumes of Talmud and philosophy. He cleared his throat. "How was school today?"

"Nu," Rachel waved her spoon dramatically, "we're working on anatomy in science. We'll be dissecting a frog next week, which I find fascinating, even if Anna Larsson nearly fainted at the mere mention." She paused, then added with careful casualness, "Of course, it's nothing compared to what you must be learning at Riddarhuset."

Jakob recognized the trap in her tone – Rachel had always been clever at getting what she wanted through sideways conversations. Just like their father. He took another spoonful of soup, buying time.

"Speaking of Riddarhuset..." Rachel leaned forward, elbows on the table despite their mother's disapproving click of tongue. "Is it true that Prince Harald is in your class?"

"Hmm?" Jakob tapped his spoon against the bowl's rim, a nervous habit he'd picked up from their father. "Oh, yes, I suppose. I don't really know him well, though. He's not about to hang around with the washerwoman's son." The half-truth sat heavy in his stomach, worse than lying somehow. He could almost hear his father's voice: "The worst sin is lying to yourself, Yasha."

Rachel's eyes narrowed – she'd always been too perceptive when it came to his discomfort. "But surely you must talk to him sometimes? Papa always said that true scholars can speak to anyone, regardless of rank." She took another piece of bread, using it to soak up her soup. "Remember how he used to tell us about debating with the nobility back in Russia?"

"Before they drove us out," Sarah muttered. She stood, gathering empty bowls with efficient movements. "Rachel, you haven't touched your mending."

"I was reading," Rachel protested. "And anyway, my book bag is falling apart – I can barely carry my texts anymore. Miss Andersson says we need our books every day now." Her voice took on that particular wheedling tone that had always worked on their father.

Jakob watched his mother's fingers tighten on the serving spoon, saw the slight hunch of her shoulders that meant they couldn't afford whatever was coming next. The familiar ache of responsibility settled in his chest.

"How bad is the satchel?" Sarah managed to keep her voice even, but Jakob recognized the careful way she formed each word, her accent growing stronger with stress.

"The strap's completely worn through, and there's a hole in the bottom." Rachel stayed focused on her dinner, pushing the potatoes around her plate. Then, like their father used to do when building an argument, she added her strongest point last: "The other students all got new ones at the start of term."

Jakob caught the flash of pain in his mother's eyes. Rachel might have inherited their father's gift for debate, but she hadn't learned when to stop pushing. He stood, gathering dishes. "I'll help clean up, Mama."

Rachel disappeared into her room with her books – their father's books, really, the few they'd been unable to sell. The quiet splash of dishwater filled the space between them as Sarah began to wash and Jakob dried, the familiar rhythm of their evening routine settling over the kitchen.

"The egg money's spoken for this month," Sarah said finally, scrubbing at a bowl with more force than necessary. Her sleeve slipped, revealing the red, chapped skin of her forearms from hours at the laundry. "And there's nothing left from my wages after we bought the slate to fix the barn roof."

"I could take it to Old Erik's place," Jakob said, carefully wiping each plate Sarah passed over. The old leather worker had always had a soft spot for their family, especially after Chaim's death. "He's a great one for repairing any kind of tack or leather. Maybe he'll have an idea that's cheaper than a whole new satchel."

"You're doing too much already." A clean bowl appeared in his hands. "The academy work-"

"Can wait a bit. Won't be forever." He lined the dishes up with precision on the shelf, trying not to think about Harald's face in the library. "Rachel shouldn't have to stand out from her classmates. You know how she gets when she feels different."

Like their father had been different. Like they were all different, really, in this Swedish town full of blonde Lutherans where everyone else's family had lived for generations.

Sarah's hands stilled in the dishwater. "You spoil her, you know. She didn't even help with the milking this morning. Instead, I found her in your Papa's study chair, reading Maimonides as if that would put food on our table."

"I know." Jakob hung the dishtowel to dry, remembering how their father used to sit in that same chair, surrounded by books, muttering in a mix of Russian, Hebrew and Yiddish that only he could understand. Rachel had his same habit of getting lost in texts, forgetting the world existed. The thought brought a familiar ache, but he pushed it aside. Someone had to keep their feet on the ground.

"You're already stretched thin with school and the farm." Sarah's voice softened. "I see how late you've stayed up studying this week. And you're up before dawn to handle the animals. Your father-" she paused, swallowed. "He would have wanted you to focus on your studies, not worry about us."

"Papa would have wanted a lot of things," Jakob said, more sharply than he intended. "He would have wanted Rachel to have a new satchel. He would have wanted you to not work your hands raw at the laundry. He would have wanted-" He would have wanted me to be more like him, to care more about books than about fighting and trajectories and making the world safe, he thought. He cut himself off, running a hand through his curls – another of his father's gestures he couldn't seem to shake.

"Genug," Sarah said softly. "Enough." She pulled the plug, letting the water drain. "We manage with what we have, like we always have."