Page 51

“Second drawer. They’re organized, and they stay organized.”

“I wasn’t going to —”

“You have a reorganizing face. I’ve seen it. Leave the drawer.” He found the towel. She found the second wine glass, which she’d kept in the cabinet nearest the door for reasons she was not going to examine. She poured. The storm rattled the windows. The Margot cohort glowed amber on the windowsill.

And the loneliness, which had been taking up quite a lot of space six minutes ago, retreated to a considerably more manageable size. Gerri had said the tether weakens when she’s not alone, and Gerri was right. Mirelle was going to have a word with her about what else she was sitting on. Knowing Gerri, that word would happen whenever Gerri decided.

He cooked.

Or rather, they cooked. The distinction was blurring. Tor took in her kitchen, giving everything the attention he gave to everything, drew conclusions, and found himself at her stove. Mirelle was nearby, handing things over and asking questions. At some point, she leaned against the counter with her wine, letting him work by candlelight and trying to remember the last time someone had done this. Tor reached past her for the pan in the second-from-left cabinet. “That’s the wrong cabinet.”

“For what?”

“The pan conventionally goes with the other pans.”

“The pan should go nearest the stove. You use it most.” He set it on the burner without breaking motion. “Your kitchen is organized by use frequency. Logical system.”

She stared at the cabinet. At the stove. At the pan that was, in fact, now closer to the stove. “I’ve been told my kitchen is disorganized.”

“By whom?”

“My ex-husband.”

“He was wrong.” He kept his attention on the stove. “About a lot of things, based on available evidence.” Her eyes were on him over the rim of her wine glass. He had said it while standing next to the stove, no big deal, a plain fact. The warmth settled around her sternum, and she let it stay. She was through with putting things away for later. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Being unreasonably kind in a way I’m unprepared for.”

“You should be prepared. It’s been weeks.”

“I keep thinking I’m prepared and then you say something and —” She gestured with the wine glass. “Structural damage.” He stirred, and the candlelight did things to his face that she was thinking about far too much. His forearm. She caught the marks: nearly healed, three thin lines from the patrol, the skin rebuilding right on schedule. She had checked them often enough to know his version of closed, and she was starting to see something else, too. “That’s the same arm. Every time.” Not a question. “The cliffs, the pillar, now the patrol. It’s always this one.” She let her gaze linger a beat longer than necessary, then let go.

“I’m angry, by the way,” Mirelle said to her wine. “Not at you. At the person who decided my emotions were a tool and picked them up without asking.” He went still in an unusual way. The processing way. “That’s where the anger should be.”

“I know. I’m going to live there a while.” Her eyes went to the stove, to whatever he was making that smelled genuinely excellent. “Is that garlic?”

“And lemon. Third shelf behind the rice.”

“I didn’t know I had lemon.” She stared at him. “You found ingredients I didn’t know were in my own kitchen.”

“Your kitchen is organized.”

“Stop saying that like it explains everything.”

“It explains this.”

She refilled both their glasses. He stirred. The storm continued its downpour against the windows. Somewhere in this, she realized she had been standing close to him for a while, and neither of them had moved to change it.

“You walked eight blocks.”

“The monitoring —”

“Tor.”

He turned to her. Sharp, even, with all his attention. “Yes. I did.”

She let that sit between them longer than the question strictly needed. Then she picked up her wine. “Good.” And turned to find plates.