She makes a soup for dinner, tossing acerbic comments my way as she cooks, and it smells wonderful. Chelsea tends to bake only—she likes sweets—but this soup smells meaty and incredible, and by the time Barlia leans over me to feed me a mouthful, my stomach is growling. I eat every bite and want a second bowl, but she’s firm that I need to be careful with my gut or she’ll be cleaning up another mess. She’s forgotten all about her weapons by the time night falls, and they sit in the kitchen as we talk and she cups a mug full of soup in her hands.
