“Is there enough to feed everyone in your sector?” Chantisse asked.
Rowena nodded. “It’s incredible how much food the guards were hoarding while offering only enough to keep us alive.”
“One or two meals can’t make up for such a long deficit,” Chantisse said with a sigh. “But the longer we delay, the greater the risk that they realize something is wrong down here. We can’t afford to let them trap us.”
“Timing is everything. We’ll feast tonight, eat again after some rest, and then—”
“We strike,” Chantisse finished.
Her mouth compressed into a grim line, dark eyes focused on a future only she could foresee. Sometimes Rowena glimpsed shadows of it, but she feared failure so much that she was afraid to fully envision what success would look like, how a free Golgerra might appear. It wasn’t that she’d lost hope, but optimism couldn’t take root fully in the dry-scrabble soil of her soul. Generally, she teetered between the brilliance of possibility and the abyss of despair, a grimly gray zone where a nebulous ‘maybe’ fluttered with faint promise.
With that pledge, the resistance leader moved on, greeting others with warmth and care, pausing to listen to concerns and assuage them. Rowena watched for a few seconds longer, then Hettie found her in the crowd. She endured the spontaneous hug and breathed through it, relaxing a fraction when her friend stepped back.
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” Ro said. “Did the fighting reach the comfort house?”
Hettie sighed. “A little. I shouldn’t care about the damage since I can’t wait to get out of here, but part of me hates to see something I built up broken this way.”
“That’s understandable,” she said gently.
“Rowena, we could use a hand on kitchen detail. Do you mind pitching in?” The question came from Kani, who was holding a pot that looked too heavy for her slight frame.
She’d learned a bit on the march, as she often ended up on meal prep in Alastor’s retinue. The others thought they were doing her a favor, sparing her from the heavier chores, and she hadn’t really minded. With a wave for Hettie, she hurried to join the girl, plucking the cooking implement from her grasp.
“Lead the way. Let’s see how far they’ve gotten.”
Fortunately, the soldiers had been too lazy to fix their own meals, so workers knew how to bake bread and make the mushroom stew. From the doorway, Rowena spotted the head cook, who hadn’t sampled enough of his own food to hurt him, as he unknowingly prepared the last meal for most of the guards. The man slammed a fist into the wall as Rowena entered the mess hall, shouting something she didn’t catch right in Nolen’s face.
As she drew closer, she caught the tail end. “…don’t fucking care. I have a stomachache and I only had a few bites. Others who pilfered more are puking their guts out. You could’ve killed us along with the guards and I doubt any of you would care. Why should I help people who tried to murder me with their silence?”
“I’d be angry too,” she said, drawing the cook’s ire from the boy who wasn’t responsible for leadership choices.
“We can keep our mouths shut,” the man snapped. “Yet nobody approached us. I—”
“The last time we brought new people in, we were betrayed. Most of us were executed. It took years for Chantisse and Hettie to rebuild. I’m sorry to those who are sick. I hope they’ll be all right.” She paused to lend the apology gravitas, then soldiered on. “But even if they aren’t, we’d make the same choices. Everyone who survives is welcome to join us. We’re heading to the upper tiers as soon as we’re strong enough. Please understand the stakes and forgive our transgressions.” Rowena pressed her hands together in an apologetic posture.
When she straightened, the cook was staring at her with an odd expression. “You’re the one who belonged to the tyrant.”
She clenched her jaw around a spate of angry words until she could offer a more measured response. “He claimed that I did. I never agreed. And my name is Rowena.”
“Maksim. I didn’t know that you’d come back. The sickly prince took you away from here, last I knew.”
His curiosity about her predicament indicated a lessening of anger, so she responded in good faith. “I was captured on the battlefield outside Hallowell, and I’ve been working with the resistance since then. They offer the best chance at deposing the despot once and for all.”
Maksim listened with apparent interest, then said, “Fine, it’s pointless to hold a grudge now, though I might ask for reparations later if any of my people fail to make a full recovery.”
Ro smiled, her entire body easing. The last thing they needed was an internal struggle when every second counted. “I’m sure Chantisse will be glad to discuss the possibility, once we’ve liberated Golgerra.”
“That sent a chill down my back,” Maksim said.
“Mine too, every time I picture it. Imagine us in the upper tiers, free to come and go. Prince Alastor is outside, mounting an external attack so we’ll never have a better opportunity. The tyrant is tired, his resources exhausted, his forces beleaguered on both sides.”
The cook wielded his metal spoon like it was a weapon of war. “Then let me play my part. I have little ones that ought to see what the sky looks like.”
Rowena added, “And have dreams of their own making. They won’t toil in the workshops like we did. Once we take the upper city, your little ones can do—or be—anything.”
The joy that lit Maksim’s face was contagious. Ro found herself smiling as well, as if hope were a virus that could spread through the rest of the populace, giving everyone strength and courage where there had only been fear and doubt. She didn’t have Chantisse’s confidence or charisma, but maybe her words could help in a small way. She followed Maksim into the kitchen and heeded his instructions, assisting with the preparation of the largest feast the eastern sector had ever seen.
Eventually, Slay came looking for her when she was up to her wrists in dough, kneading with all her strength. She realized how tense he was when he gripped the edge of the worktable until his knuckles whitened. The metal cracked a little in his hold, and Rowena’s eyes widened.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I lost track of you,” he said in a hoarse tone. “You were there with me and then…you weren’t. Couldn’t find you in the chaos and nobody knew. I thought…”
Something terrible happened. Or Tycho took me.
He heaved a shuddering breath and she dusted off her hands before closing the distance between them. Rowena reached up and cradled his sweaty face in her palms, drawing his forehead to hers. This close, she felt the tremors running through his big body.
He’s so scared. For me.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m safe.”
Slay kissed Rowena because he couldn’t refrain.
He couldn’t simply opt not to. Her mouth was oxygen, feeding air to his starved lungs, and when she parted her lips, digging her hands into his back to drag him closer still, the inner turmoil smoothed from desperation to desire. It didn’t matter that they were in the middle of the kitchen with people passing by all around. The only thing he cared about was having her in his arms—that and the fact that she trusted him to touch her when she allowed nobody else close.