The storm came in from the north, the kind that pressed its palm against the windows and made the eaves mutter. Greystone smelled of wet pine and boiled herbs.
Eira had lined cups on the table for "sensible hydration," and Marla had declared soup "mandatory under penalty of scolding."
"Soup is not a law," Shannon said, shrugging off his cloak.
"It is in my kitchen," Marla replied, brandishing a ladle like a scepter.
"You're in our kitchen," Tristan corrected while smiling.
Tristan laughed and set the twins' bowls on the low bench. Lyra pried off her lid, inhaled, and pronounced, "Not mush."
"Correct," Marla said. "It's stew."
"Stew is mush," Riven informed her, solemn as a judge.
A rap sounded at the door—soft, then urgent. Zaldy pushed in with rain in his beard and worry in his eyes. Athena followed, shepherding little Eira inside.
