“For what?” Viv narrowed her eyes. “For existing?”
“Oh. No, I… I made a thing.”
Viv propped a hand on her hip. Micah shuffled awkwardly, unsure what to say. He’d tried to use as little of Viv’s supplies as he could, but it was still a risk to cook with someone else’s food. He gestured at the tart he’d made, filled with ground nuts and topped with fruit he’d sliced in thin, overlapping layers. It made the tart look like a blooming flower, and Micah drew back, wary.
Viv gazed at the tart. “You made that.”
“Was it wrong?” Micah held his breath as Viv approached. “I know I used your stores.”
“So you made us a tart.” Viv examined him with the same critical air she used on the pastry. “Can I cut into it, or is it supposed to be art? Because that’s almost too pretty to eat.”
Micah blushed. He’d overdone it. “I’ll make it simpler next time.”
“Don’t you dare.” Viv opened a drawer full of knives and started cutting a slice. “Sit down. You’re eating this with me so I don’t feel like a pampered empress or something.”
Micah almost smiled. “We did away with emperors and empresses ages ago.”
“Yeah, good thing. Useless people. Probably never baked a tart in their lives.” Viv handed him a plate and cut another slice.
Micah sat on the couch where he’d slept, waiting for Viv to come over, but she ate standing up at the counter, leaning against it with her cloak bunched up behind her. She closed her eyes as she took a bite, then cursed and took another.
“This is… How did you do this?”
“There was a recipe.” Micah took a bite of his own slice. He didn’t often bother to cook anything that took more than a few minutes to prepare, but when he did, he always used the book. He had to admit the fruit was a nice touch.
“Keep that recipe forever,” Viv said, and when Viv raised her brows, he realized he was smiling.
They ate in silence after that. Each of them in their own space, Viv leaning on the counter, Micah flipping through his book, the quiet unburdened with forced conversation.
When she’d finished eating, Viv straightened and rolled her shoulders. “There was something in that, wasn’t there?”
“Nuts and eggs. Fruit.”
“Not that. I mean—” Viv cut herself off with a sigh and headed toward him. Micah tensed, but she sat a few cushions away, not even acknowledging that she’d changed direction as soon as Micah began drawing in on himself. “Can I see the recipe?”
Micah hesitated. He lay a hand on his book. All he had to do was pass it over. But he couldn’t. He could feel the knot forming in his throat again, the panic and the fear, and he pulled the book into his lap.
Viv propped her chin on her hand. “Okay. The book is off-limits. I get that. Why don’t I show you my book first?”
“You can’t have one like this. My great-grandmother wrote it herself.”
Viv stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. “And Sasha’s grandmother made this one. Come on. It’ll distract you.”
“People tried that, before.” Micah got to his feet, holding the book to his chest. “Distracting me. They thought the fear would go away if I looked at something else.”
“Bet they were real patient about it, too,” Viv said. Her voice was thick with sarcasm as she led Micah to the weaving room. “Didn’t rush you or make you think you were inconveniencing them at all.”
Micah narrowed his eyes. “Is this a witch thing? Did you look into my mind?” Because she was right: his parents, the other villagers—even Dragan, once—all of them acted like if Micah didn’t stop panicking immediately, Lukos was going to fall into the sea. It always made the panic worse, because now there was shame and guilt mixed in with the rest.
“My mother had several children before me,” Viv said, stopping at the doorway. “I lived in the same bedroom where they all slept before they died. Sometimes I’d wake up thinking they were pulling me down, trying to take me with them, and my parents… didn’t like that I was making a fuss. It upset them.”
“Making a fuss is different from a night terror, though.”
“I know that. They didn’t.” Viv shrugged. “I’m just saying it isn’t a witch thing. What I’m about to show you is, though.”
Micah followed her into the weaving room, where she opened the drawer of a long dresser and lifted out a rolled tapestry. It was a good size and masterfully made, with interlocking panels that told a story as she unrolled it on the rug.
“That’s the history of witchcraft in the Compound,” she said, running a hand over the fine threads. “Sasha’s grandmother made it as a wedding gift. See, there? At the top? Those are what witches used to be in the empire we left behind.”
