The footsteps grew louder, steady, sharp against the old floorboards.
Freya's hands clenched at her apron. I leaned back in my chair, waiting like a condemned man pretending the gallows rope was just a scarf.
The nanny appeared in the doorway, arms folded, eyes narrowing at once. Her gaze swept across the room — the flour dusted on the counter, the faint smoke curling near the rafters, the crooked cups, the soup still steaming in the pot.
Her lips pressed together in a line so tight I thought she might actually explode.
Nyx sat tall at her feet, tail flicking, smug as a king's advisor who just betrayed his own kingdom. "Behold," he purred. "They live. The food lives. Miracles all around."
The nanny ignored him, stepping closer. Her eyes went straight to the table. She leaned down, sniffed once, then peered into the pot. Her spoon dipped in, slow and precise, as though she expected poison. She lifted a small taste to her lips.
Freya held her breath. I didn't dare move.
