Chương 29: No more tables

The butcher shop always woke before the rooms above it. I heard the first cold cabinet open while I was still tying my hair. A moment later came the soft scrape of a whetstone and the heavier thump of a delivery crate being set on the rear floor. Darin had begun work. He had never needed a morning bell. If the sun rose later in winter, he simply worked longer in the dark. My room sat over the side storeroom, where the walls carried the smell of salt, clean wood, and dried herbs used for preserving meat.

The room was small enough that I could reach the window from the bed without standing. One narrow wardrobe held my clothes, and a writing table rested beneath the window. Three intake sheets from The Second Spark lay there beneath a smooth stone. I had checked them before sleeping. I checked them again while fastening my coat. The cupboard sales matched the tokens collected. The guild payment had arrived in advance. Rowan House had paid the second weekly collection without needing a reminder. Nothing was missing.

The numbers still bothered me. I folded the papers together and slipped them into my work case. Downstairs, Vela stood near the stove with a pan of eggs and yesterday's bread. She wore a heavy shawl over her dress, though the butcher shop below kept the floor warm. Darin had already opened the front shutters and begun sorting the morning orders. He stood behind the cutting table with his sleeves rolled above his forearms.

Three wrapped parcels waited in front of him, each marked with a customer name and collection time. Vela placed an egg onto a piece of bread and held it toward me.

"Sit down."

"I can eat while I walk."

"You can also drop food on your coat while you walk."

"I have never done that."

"You did when you were twelve."

"That was a long time ago."

"It still happened." I took the bread and sat at the end of the small table. The front of Rook's was colder than the rooms above it. Frost had gathered along the lower corners of the windows, softening the view of the street. The cutting room behind us smelled of cold stone and fresh sawdust spread across the floor. Darin looked up from his order list.

"Tovan still arriving on time?"

"Earlier than he needs to," I said before taking a bite.

"He has started preparing the stock before Joe comes down." Darin made a small sound in his throat. It was not quite approval, though it was close enough.

"He eating?"

"Yes."

"Proper meals?"

"He works in a restaurant."

"That doesn't answer the question." Vela set another piece of bread beside me.

"It never does with cooks."

"He eats with us after service," I said.

"Joe forgets more often than Tovan does." Darin marked one order complete and moved to the next.

"That sounds like Benson."

"You've spoken to him twice."

"Twice was enough." Vela returned to the stove and turned the second egg.

"Take another piece for later."

"I'll eat at work."

"You said Joe forgets."

"I said Joe forgets. I didn't say I do." Vela slid the egg onto a fresh piece of bread and wrapped it in cloth anyway.

"Then you can give it to him." I placed the last bite of my breakfast in my mouth and took the parcel. Darin's knife paused over the order list. He did not look up. Vela did. Her face remained calm, which meant she had noticed more than she intended to say.

"It will save him from eating over the stove," I said.

"I didn't ask."

"You were looking."

"I have eyes." Darin moved the third parcel toward the collection shelf.

"Both of you need to leave the man alone." Vela looked toward him.

"You were the one asking whether Tovan eats."

"That is different."

"How?" Darin picked up his knife. The conversation ended because he wanted it to. I finished my tea and opened the work case. The previous day's intake sheets rested on top. Vela glanced down while wiping the table.

"Trouble?"

"No. The money is there."

"Then why are you looking at it before sunrise?"

"Because the money has been there in nearly the same amount for five weeks." Darin finally looked over.

"Busy every day?"

"Yes."

"More customers?"

"More people trying to order." He wiped his thumb along the flat of the knife.

"At the inn, a full dining room meant Mother had done well," I said.

"At Rook's, you taught me that a full counter only meant we had work."

"A full counter can lose money," Darin said.

"Wrong cuts. Too much waste. Too many late accounts." Vela folded the cloth around my second breakfast and tucked the loose end beneath it.

"And a full room can make people feel rich before they count the fuel." I closed the work case. Neither of them asked what Joe intended to do. They had given me the useful part already. I left through the front door as Darin turned the sign and Vela began arranging the first cuts behind the glass. The western district had changed in small ways over the last year. The cobbler across from Mara's bakery now opened before sunrise on guild mornings.

A produce seller stopped near the western road three times each week instead of once. Two different couriers used The Second Spark when giving directions, even when the place they wanted stood closer to the wall. Mara's bakery was already open. Warm light covered the front windows, and the smell of fresh rolls reached the street. Amon stepped out carrying a delivery basket in one hand and a paper parcel in the other. He held the door while Mara stood inside saying something I could not hear.

Whatever it was made him lean back into the bakery and answer. Mara shook her head. Amon smiled and left. He noticed me halfway across the street.

"Morning," he called, lifting the basket slightly.

"You're going the wrong way for the guild."

"I have a delivery."

"You always have a delivery."

"That's because people trust me with baskets now." Mara opened the door behind him.

"I trust him to return the large ones," she said.

"The smaller ones still disappear."

"They get used."

"They sit in your room." Amon looked at the basket in his hand.

"This one is large." Mara gave me a small wave and went back inside before the bread cooled. Amon watched the door close. There was something easier in his face than there had been a few months earlier. They still moved around one another in much the same way, but they no longer seemed to be waiting for someone else to name it. I continued toward The Second Spark. The gold hungry cupboard opened as I approached. A porter removed two road pies, closed the door with his elbow, and hurried west without noticing me.

A second man stood beside the red cupboard, reading the warming instructions.

"Does Joe cook this early?" he asked when I passed.

"The kitchen opens before the dining room."

"That wasn't what I asked." I stopped near the door. He wore a new guild coat without a rank patch, and the leather at his cuffs had not yet softened. I had not seen him before.

"Joe and Tovan both work mornings," I said. The man glanced toward the kitchen window, though the curtain remained closed.

"Which one makes the pies?"

"Both." He looked at the parcel in his hand. The question behind his face did not need help becoming words.

"The instructions are printed on the wrapping," I said.

"Eat it cold or warm it with the mark. Either way, it's breakfast." He looked down again, then nodded. I unlocked the front door and went inside. Tovan had arrived before me. He stood at the preparation table with his coat removed and his dark hair tied back. A stockpot warmed behind him while he worked through a mound of root vegetables. His knife moved in a steady rhythm. He glanced toward the clock when I entered.

"You are four minutes late."

"I am two minutes early."

"Then I arrived six minutes earlier than expected."

"That is not how my schedule works."

"It is how mine works." A cup of tea waited near the end of the counter. He had added a little honey and nothing else. I set down my work case and took the cup.

"You made this before I arrived."

"I made tea. Your cup was nearby."

"That sounds accidental."

"It was carefully accidental." The kitchen smelled of stock, toasted seeds, and the faint smoke that clung to Tovan's heavy coat during winter. He had worked at The Second Spark long enough that the shelves reflected some of his habits now. The pepper had moved closer to the stove. Joe's measuring spoons remained where they had always been because neither of us wanted to hear him explain why moving them would damage the entire kitchen. I removed the intake sheets from my case and checked the cupboard tokens.

Tovan continued cutting for several minutes before he spoke again.

"A man came in yesterday and watched me make his stew."

"Did he complain?"

"No. He waited until Joe tasted it before he started eating." My fingers stopped over the token count.

"What did you do?" Tovan's mouth curved slightly while he pushed the cut roots into a bowl.

"I gave Joe a larger spoon."

"That isn't funny."

"It was a little funny."

"He paid for your stew."

"He ate all of it too."

"That doesn't make the first part better." Tovan wiped the knife and reached for the next root.

"I know what he was doing." His voice held no hurt that he wanted me to tend. He had known that look longer than I had known him.

"Joe didn't notice," he added.

"Joe notices mana moving through a grain of rice."

"People are harder." I could not argue with that. The rear door opened. Joe entered carrying a staff wrapped in plain cloth. Cold air followed him into the kitchen. His dark coat had been fastened unevenly, and his hair was still damp near the temples. A fading bruise marked the edge of his jaw. He stepped around the vegetable crate without looking down. Months ago, he would have struck it with his shin and then blamed the crate for being outside its proper position. I noticed the change.

I also noticed the bruise before I meant to. Tovan looked up from the cutting board.

"Did the floor win today?"

"The floor was not involved."

"That means someone else did." Joe placed the wrapped staff beneath the rear shelf.

"Bera has a low center of balance." Tovan nodded as though this explained everything. Joe removed his coat and reached for an apron. I held out the wrapped breakfast Vela had given me. He looked at it.

"What is that?" This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"Food."

"I know it is food."

"Then we're making progress." Joe accepted the parcel and opened it. Steam no longer rose from the bread, though the egg inside was still warm.

"I ate before training."

"What did you eat?"

"A pear." Tovan looked over his shoulder.

"A whole one?"

"Most of it." I pointed toward the stool near the pantry. Joe sat without arguing. That was another change. He ate the bread while checking the morning preparation board. His hands had gained new calluses along the fingers and palm. Thin chalk lines remained beneath two nails, likely from whatever he had worked on after closing. I knew the signs too well. The stiff right shoulder meant he had trained with the staff. Chalk on the side of his thumb meant he had stayed upstairs drawing runes.

A certain quietness meant he had forgotten lunch. None of those details belonged in the intake book. I had learned them anyway. Joe finished the last bite and folded the cloth.

"Did your aunt make that?"

"Yes."

"It was good."

"I'll tell her." He stood and set the stool back beneath the pantry shelf. The morning began. By the sunrise bell, the road pies were gone from the first cupboard. Tovan had prepared twenty-four. Joe had wanted thirty. Twenty-four had been the correct number. Breakfast filled twelve of the indoor seats. The remaining tables stayed open long enough for me to prepare the guild collection slips and check the Rowan House containers. The first regulars greeted Tovan when they passed the service opening.

A courier asked whether he had made the pepper gravy again. A wall guard wanted the root stew with "the smoky thing from last week." Tovan told him the smoky thing had been charred onion. The guard asked for extra. The trust had grown through repetition. People watched Tovan cook, ate what he served, and returned the next day. Joe worked beside him, tasting from the same pots and handing over the same knives. That helped. It helped more than it should have.

Near the end of breakfast, the young guild man from outside entered and chose a table near the counter. He had eaten one road pie already. The empty wrapper showed above his coat pocket. He studied the menu.

"Which meal helps with fatigue?" he asked when I approached.

"The fried rice usually supports recovery after physical work. The stew is warm and filling. The eggs are breakfast." He looked toward the service opening.

"Which one does Joe make?"

"They both work in the kitchen."

"I mean the one with the stronger effect."

"Joe finishes the fried rice today. Tovan made the stew." The man's eyes stayed on Tovan.

"Does the stew do anything?"

"It feeds you." He looked back at me. I kept my pencil over the order slip. The restaurant had become known for effects. Some customers arrived because a friend's back felt better after lunch. Others had read the guild reports or heard that guards recovered faster after eating here. That attention paid the rent. It also made people forget they had entered a restaurant.

"The stew is good," I said.

"The fried rice costs more. Which one do you want?" He ordered the fried rice. I wrote it down and carried the slip to the kitchen. Tovan read it without comment. Joe looked toward the customer.

"Does he have an injury?"

"He has a new coat and too many questions."

"That does not answer mine."

"He asked which food has the stronger effect." Joe turned the pan.

"What did you tell him?"

"That the stew feeds people." Tovan's knife slowed for half a second. Joe considered my answer.

"That is accurate."

"I know." The man ate every grain of rice and left a clean bowl. He did not order the stew. The room filled properly at lunch. All eighteen seats were taken before the second bell. Five people waited outside beneath the awning, and both hungry cupboards emptied within twenty minutes of being stocked. I moved between tables, counter, door, and payment box without stopping. Joe and Tovan worked behind the service opening. They had developed a rhythm that did not belong to either of them alone.

Tovan finished the meat while Joe guided the rice. Joe adjusted the broth, then moved aside when Tovan reached for the pot. They disagreed in short looks and small changes of position. The food kept moving. A woman near the window asked whether Joe could make her portion stronger. He heard her through the opening and stepped closer.

"Stronger in what way?" he asked, wiping his hands on a cloth.

"My husband says the rice helped him sleep after his wall shift. I haven't slept properly in days." Joe's expression changed.

"Are you in pain?"

"No. I'm tired."

"How long?" The woman hesitated.

"A few weeks." Joe set the cloth down.

"The food may help you recover from an ordinary hard day. It won't fix weeks without rest."

"I can pay extra."

"That wouldn't change the food." She looked disappointed. Joe glanced toward her untouched cup.

"Eat first. Then you should speak to a healer if the tiredness keeps going." The woman nodded slowly. He returned to the stove. He could have charged her more. People would have paid. That was one of the problems with him. It was also one of the reasons I trusted the room around him. A chair opened near the western wall. Before the customer had carried away his coat, Joe looked at the narrow gap beside it. I knew that look.

"No." He glanced toward me.

"I haven't said anything."

"You're thinking about another table."

"A narrow one might fit beside the wall."

"People need to walk there."

"They could use the other side."

"A woman is standing there with hot soup." Joe watched her turn sideways between two chairs. The bowl came close to another customer's shoulder. He looked back at the gap.

"Perhaps a shelf."

"No."

"A wall counter would use less floor."

"Joe." He returned to the kitchen. Tovan leaned closer to the opening.

"He has measured that wall seven times."

"Eight," Joe said from the stove. I marked another order as paid. Lunch continued until nearly the fourth bell. When the final table emptied, Tovan closed the kitchen for half an hour. Joe started to object, but Tovan placed a bowl in his hands before the words formed. Then he brought one to me. The stew carried no strong mana effect. It had soft roots, dark greens, and pieces of meat that had cooked until they came apart beneath the spoon. Tovan set bread beside my bowl.

"Sit," he said.

"I need to count the lunch drawer."

"The coins will stay there." Joe had already taken the chair across from mine. He lowered himself carefully, favoring one leg after the morning training. I sat. The dining room looked larger when it was empty. Eighteen chairs. Six tables. Two stools along the counter. Every one had been used. Joe broke his bread in half and pushed one piece toward me without asking. I already had bread. I took it anyway.

He ate in silence for several minutes, his attention moving now and then toward the wall where he wanted another table. I looked down before he caught me watching. The intake sheets waited inside my work case. Five weeks of numbers. The room had grown busier during those weeks. More people waited outside. More requests arrived by messenger. More customers asked when we would add another service. The money coming through the door had barely moved.

After the bowls were cleared, I opened the intake ledger on the table. Joe saw the paper markers and brought his own book down from upstairs. His ledger was thicker than mine and bound with a simple leather strap. He kept it in the locked drawer beside his workbench. I kept the service books: sales, payments, staff hours, ingredient deliveries, standing orders, and money still owed to us. I also tracked what each meal cost to produce and warned Joe when a price no longer made sense.

Joe carried those figures into the full accounts. He handled taxes, reserves, major purchases, improvements, and whatever remained for him as the owner. Rent, supplies, repairs, taxes, owner withdrawals, reserves, and whatever materials disappeared upstairs under the heading of research. The Second Spark belonged to him. So did the money left after everyone else had been paid, along with every loss when the week went badly. He sat beside me and opened the ledger to the current month.

The earlier pages stayed folded beneath the cover, along with his private material receipts. I did not need those to understand the problem in front of us. I turned my book toward him.

"Five weeks," I said, pointing to the totals.

"Three thousand eight hundred and seventy-two. Three thousand nine hundred and eleven. Three thousand eight hundred and ninety. Three thousand nine hundred and six. This week will finish near the same place." Joe read each line.

"We had more customers this week."

"We had more people try to become customers." Tovan dried a pan near the kitchen door.

"We turned away forty-one meals," he said.

"Nessa counted." Joe looked up.

"Forty-one?"

"Thirty-five orders," I said.

"Six groups left before I could offer another time." Joe moved his finger across the figures.

"The cupboards sold more."

"The dining room sold less during the same hours because people waited longer." He opened his own book and began adding my intake to the expense columns. He worked quietly. The pencil moved in short lines, stopped, then returned to an earlier page. I knew better than to speak while he was inside a calculation. Tovan carried the clean pan back to the kitchen. I watched Joe's hand instead. A pale scar crossed one knuckle. The newer calluses sat beneath it.

He had gained them slowly enough that I could remember when they were not there. I moved my attention back to the ledger. Joe finished the last column and checked it again.

"The restaurant is profitable," he said.

"I know." He looked at the figures once more.

"After wages, rent, supplies, the repair reserve, tax reserve, and replacement equipment, the average weekly profit is six hundred and eighty-four kamera."

"That's healthy."

"Yes."

"It also hasn't risen."

"No." Joe leaned back. He did not look disappointed exactly. Numbers rarely hurt him until they blocked something he wanted to build. His gaze moved toward the folded guild ingredient notice near the counter. The most recent list offered a small amount of emberback fat for more than one good week's profit. The glass-antler marrow cost nearly two. He had bought neither. Joe turned back to his ledger.

"You didn't take your full owner's amount last month." His pencil stopped.

"I took enough."

"You wrote the planned amount here."

"That was before the cold cabinet needed a new conductor."

"The restaurant reserve could have covered it."

"It did."

"Then why is your amount lower?" Joe looked at the line as though it had appeared without his help.

"I also bought materials."

"For upstairs?"

"Yes."

"How much?" He gave me the number. It was smaller than I expected and still enough to explain the missing amount.

"You should write personal materials under your own spending."

"They are research materials."

"They are not restaurant supplies."

"They may become restaurant supplies."

"Did you buy them for the restaurant?" Joe looked toward the stairs.

"Some of them." I waited. He moved one expense into a different column. That was as much agreement as I was going to receive. Tovan returned and sat at the end of the table.

"So we are full and making money," he said.

"That sounds pleasant."

"It is pleasant," I told him.

"It is also the limit of this room." Joe looked toward the western wall again.

"There may be space for a counter."

"There isn't."

"We could stay open later."

"You both begin before sunrise on contract days."

"Tovan could take the morning." Tovan rested his large hands around an empty cup.

"And who takes the evening?" Joe did not answer immediately.

"We could hire another cook," he said. Tovan's eyes moved toward the dining room.

"Another cook needs somewhere to stand."

"The preparation table could be extended."

"Into the wall?" I asked. Joe ignored that. The kitchen could produce more food for a short rush. It could not add another full service without someone losing rest or the meals becoming rushed. There was another problem.

"The new customers are coming for you," I said. Joe looked at me.

"They are coming for the food."

"The regulars are. A lot of the new ones ask whether you're cooking before they sit down."

"Tovan cooks."

"I know." Tovan rubbed one thumb along the side of his cup.

"So do some of them," he said.

"They still want to see Joe." Joe frowned. He had likely noticed the questions and filed them beneath menu interest. I told him about the man who waited for him to taste Tovan's stew. The frown deepened.

"I taste every pot."

"He didn't know that," Tovan said.

"He only knew you ate it."

"That should not be necessary."

"It shouldn't," I agreed.

"For now, it helps." Joe looked toward the kitchen. Tovan met his eyes without embarrassment.

"I'm not leaving," Tovan said.

"People learn slowly. We keep feeding them while they do." Joe nodded once. The answer settled him more than anything I could have said. I closed the intake book.

"We can raise some prices," I said.

"The contract meals already pay more. We could adjust the specialty dishes and leave the ordinary menu alone."

"That gives us more money without more meals," Joe said.

"Some. It won't give us another kitchen." He studied the room again. The Second Spark was stable. Wages were secure. The reserves held. The contracts paid in advance, and the cupboards earned money outside the dining seats. More people wanted the food than we could serve. It was a good problem. Good problems still needed answers. Joe's attention moved to the service counter, where a narrow metal frame sat beneath a cloth.

He had carried it down two days earlier and left it there after Tovan said the legs were too close to the stove. I lifted the cloth. The frame was built to sit beneath a pan. Thin rune lines followed the outer ring, and three small markers waited along one side.

"What does this do?" I asked. Joe leaned forward.

"It does not work yet."

"That wasn't my question."

"It measures heat across the pan and shows broad changes in the mana pattern." Tovan came closer.

"The middle marker reacts too late."

"I adjusted it last night."

"You said that yesterday."

"I adjusted it again." I looked from the frame to Joe.

"How much would something like this cost?" He answered with the price of the metal, conductor strips, inscription work, and the two pieces he had already replaced. Tovan gave a low whistle.

"That is less than I expected."

"It is too expensive for most kitchens," Joe said.

"Most kitchens don't need the mana part," I replied. Joe's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the frame.

"They could use the heat markers."

"And Mara's oven dial?"

"That is simpler."

"The hungry cupboards?"

"They require weekly maintenance."

"Could you build one that doesn't?"

"Yes, but the power source and locks would need to be replaced."

"How many people have asked to buy one?" Joe looked toward the front window.

"Nine." Tovan smiled into his cup.

"You remembered the number."

"They left addresses."

"And you told all nine no," I said.

"The design is not ready to sell."

"Then perhaps that is where the money goes next." Joe looked at me. I tapped the metal frame with one finger.

"You keep trying to find space for another meal. Maybe the next money doesn't come from food." His gaze moved from the frame to the oven dial, then toward the cupboards outside. The rough cooling-insert sketch for Laura's apron sat near the end of the counter beneath a folded piece of cloth. Each thing had begun with one problem. A hot bakery. An uneven pan. Workers arriving after the dining room closed. Joe built an answer and moved on.

"You make one meal and sell it once," I said.

"You build one useful tool, and someone can keep using it." Joe picked up the frame.

"It would need testing."

"Then test it."

"Someone would need to manufacture the parts."

"Your father knows people."

"The contracts would need—""I know." He stopped. Tovan looked between us.

"You both sound happier when the problem becomes larger."

"I don't," I said. Joe turned the frame over and examined the underside.

"You do a little," Tovan said. The evening customers began arriving before we settled anything. That was fine. A business did not appear because three people discussed it over an empty tea cup. The frame still needed work. Laura's cooling insert remained a drawing. The cupboards needed too much attention to sell safely. The idea had entered the room. That was enough for one afternoon. Evening service filled fourteen seats before the late bell.

A woman from the central district ordered fried rice and asked Joe whether the gold line on his apron was part of the restaurant's mark. Joe looked down at the thread Laura had used to repair the pocket.

"It is a repair."

"It suits you."

"The thread was the correct weight." The woman smiled at him. Joe turned toward the kitchen and began explaining why thinner thread would have torn through the cloth. I felt a small, sharp irritation. It passed almost at once, leaving embarrassment behind. The woman had done nothing wrong. Joe had not noticed what she was doing. Tovan had. He caught my eye through the service opening and looked down before his smile could grow. I marked the woman's order paid with more force than the paper required.

The rest of the evening went smoothly. A guard asked for Tovan's stew by name. The young guild man from breakfast returned near closing and bought the last road pie from the cupboard. He did not ask who had made it. Small progress still counted. After the last customer left, Tovan cleaned the stove while Joe checked the holding runes in the cupboards. I counted the drawer, recorded the final intake, and compared it against the payment marks. Everything matched. Joe returned inside carrying the empty cupboard tray.

"How close?" he asked.

"To what?"

"The weekly estimate." I added the last amount.

"Three thousand nine hundred and fourteen." He looked toward the ledger from the afternoon.

"Forty-two more than the lowest week."

"With more people turned away." Joe set the tray beneath the counter. He did not look at the wall this time. That was also progress. Tovan finished drying the last pan and took his coat from the rear hook.

"Tomorrow," he said to Joe, "the middle marker should react before the fat begins to smoke."

"It will."

"You said that yesterday."

"It will be true tomorrow." Tovan laughed and left through the rear door. I closed the intake book. Joe gathered the metal frame, the apron sketch, and two loose conductor strips. He paused beside the stairs.

"You were right." I looked up.

"That is too broad. About what?"

"The money." He shifted the frame beneath one arm.

"The restaurant cannot earn much more without changing shape."

"I know."

"I also know nine people who asked about the cupboards."

"I know that too." Joe stood there for another moment. He had become better at balance during the last few months. I could see it in the way he carried the awkward frame without leaning, and in the quiet turn of his feet when he moved around a chair. He still looked tired.

"Go upstairs," I said.

"You're staring at the conductors."

"I was thinking."

"You can think sitting down."

"The stool is downstairs."

"You own other chairs." He considered that.

"Good night, Nessa."

"Good night." He climbed the stairs. I listened until his steps crossed the ceiling above me. A drawer opened. Metal touched the workbench. Then came the light scrape of chalk. I knew those sounds. I knew how he took his tea, how he held one shoulder after staff practice, and how his voice changed when a number worried him. I knew which silence meant he was angry and which meant a new idea had taken hold. I had learned all of it while watching the restaurant. At least, that was what I had told myself.

I turned down the lamps, checked the door twice, and walked home through the cold. The butcher shop was dark when I returned, though a light remained in the rear room. Darin sat at the small table with the next morning's order list spread before him. He glanced up when I entered.

"Good day?"

"The room was full." He looked back at the list.

"That usually means yes." I removed my coat and hung it near the stove.

"Usually." Darin made one final mark and closed the book. He did not ask what had gone wrong. He knew I would tell him if something had. Upstairs, I placed The Second Spark's intake sheets on my writing table and weighed them down with the smooth stone. The numbers had stayed nearly the same. The restaurant was safe, busy, and profitable. Joe remained its owner. Tovan and I received our wages, and Joe carried the risk after that. Nothing needed to be repaired before morning.

Still, I lay awake longer than I meant to. I thought about the full dining room, the nine cupboard requests, and the rough metal frame in Joe's hands. Then I thought about the way he had said my name before going upstairs. That part had nothing to do with the accounts. I knew it anyway.