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Chapter 2 - A Place At The Table

I hadn't meant to stay the night.

Truly, I hadn't. I told Ava at least six times—seven, maybe—that I'd leave after dinner. I wasn't looking for pity or a place to curl up like a stray dog. But then the stew had smelled like actual spices, the kind that made your mouth water before your stomach remembered it was empty. There'd been warm bread too. Real butter. And the fire in the hearth had this steady, crackling hum that made the corners of the room seem softer.

Someone—probably Ava's gran—had draped a quilt over my shoulders while I sat trying not to shiver. The next thing I knew, I was blinking awake to sunlight filtering through a high skylight. Pale amber light poured across polished stone floors and over a couch so soft it had swallowed me whole. The fabric was velvet. I'd never touched velvet before.

I sat up slowly, squinting at my hands. They were clean. I didn't remember washing them. My boots, still damp from the day before, were neatly set beside the couch. A small towel had been folded over them.

Had they taken them off for me?

"Up," Ava's voice chirped, and a toe jabbed my foot. I looked up to see her standing at the foot of the couch, arms crossed, eyes sharp. She wore a sky-blue tunic now, brushed soft like something out of a merchant window, and her leggings were tucked neatly into boots that looked actually waterproof. Her hair was half-tamed under a braided headband, though the curls still rebelled around the edges.

"You smell better, but Gran says you'll still chase out the toast if you come to the table looking like that," she added. "Mum says to wash first. And not like yesterday. Use the soap. All of it."

"I didn't mean to get mud on the floors," I muttered, pushing the quilt off.

Ava tossed a folded tunic into my lap. It wasn't new—no starch, no stiff collar—but it was clean, and it didn't smell like oil or wet brick. I glanced down at my own shirt, which was still damp and crusted faintly with soot. No contest.

"That way," she said, pointing to a small tiled doorway off the hall. "Soap's in the dish. Don't skip it. Mum will smell it."

The room was small, but full of light. The mirror had no cracks, which startled me more than the lemon-scented soap. I scrubbed until my skin was blotchy and red, until I looked more like a boy and less like a soot goblin. The tunic fit better than expected. Not tight, but like someone had picked it for me on purpose.

When I returned to the hall, the house was quieter. No clatter. No echo of raised voices. Ava was gone, but I heard faint humming and followed it.

The dining room looked like something from a storybook. A tall window bathed the table in gold light. Polished wood floors, pale green ivy creeping along the window trim. The table itself was long and rectangular, with seating for at least eight, though only one end had plates set. Gran sat closest to the fireplace, her hair a halo of silvery white as she buttered a scone with exacting care. Ava sat next to her, cheerfully chomping through a strip of dried fruit.

At the far end sat Lady Miren.

She didn't look up right away. She sat with her hands folded around a mug of something steaming and dark. Her posture was straight as a sword. Her hair, thick and pinned into a coiled braid, made her look like she belonged in a portrait—one of the serious ones, hung in a city hall.

When she did glance up, her eyes pinned me in place. Sharp, like polished slate.

"You're late," she said, but her voice wasn't unkind. Just cool. Clipped. Like I'd missed a train.

"I—sorry," I said, bowing my head, though I had no idea if I was meant to. My legs moved on their own, carrying me to the nearest chair like I didn't trust myself to keep standing.

Gran laughed lightly, a musical sound that tickled the room's corners. "Don't look like you're being marched to trial, boy. Sit, eat. You're skinnier than the cat, and she's been dead ten years."

Ava snorted. "That cat bit everything."

"She had standards," Gran said with mock solemnity. "Something boys ought to learn."

I tried not to blush as I sat. Before I could touch anything, a plate was set in front of me. Toast, honeycakes, some sort of spiced jam. I tried not to look like I was counting every piece.

The first bite of honeycake made my throat tighten. It was soft, warm, just a little crumbly, like something remembered from a dream. I didn't speak, in case my voice cracked with how badly I wanted more.

No one talked for a while. Gran kept humming. Ava kicked me under the table once—lightly—then smiled like she hadn't.

I was halfway through my second helping when Lady Miren finally said, "So. Ava tells me you're looking for your family."

I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. The honeycake fell off it, unnoticed.

"I—didn't mean to tell her that," I said.

"No?" she asked, lifting a single eyebrow.

"I just…" I looked down. "I've been in the orphan tier since I could walk. Don't know who they were or where I came from. It's probably a stupid idea."

"It's not stupid," Ava mumbled around a mouthful of jam. "If I didn't know my parents, I'd want to find them too."

Lady Miren sipped her tea, eyes unreadable. "Wanting to know is one thing. Having the means to search is another."

I didn't answer. Of course I didn't have the means. I didn't even have a second pair of socks. What would I do with a search?

Gran, uncharacteristically quiet, watched me over her glasses. Then she reached over and added another scoop of jam to my plate.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"We've been reviewing Ava's placement for the fall," Lady Miren continued. "She's being enrolled at Pluterra Academy."

I looked up quickly.

Ava beamed. "It's the best of the royal academies. Built right into the mountain. They take kids from every major city tier."

Lady Miren didn't smile, but her voice softened, just a fraction. "They also hold the largest genealogical archive in the region. And a council that may be able to assist you in your search—should you prove yourself."

I blinked. "I don't understand."

"You'd be admitted as Ava's academic companion," she said. "It would be an unusual placement, but not unheard of. I'd sponsor your housing and tuition."

The room went still.

Me?

I stared at her, mouth dry. "You… you'd sponsor me? But why?"

She set her mug down with deliberate grace. "Because curiosity is rarer than bloodlines. And stubbornness, rarer still."

"I—" My voice stuck. "I don't have anything. No title. No… nothing. I'm not even sure I could keep up."

"You'll keep up," Ava said confidently. "You're better at riddles than half the kids at my last school."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. Compliments made my skin itch.

Lady Miren's eyes narrowed. "You would, of course, still need to pass all initial assessments. There are no guarantees. No shortcuts."

"I understand," I said quickly. Too quickly.

Gran chuckled. "Lad's been surviving without shortcuts his whole life."

I nodded, then looked to Ava. "You'd really want me there? I mean… we've only just met."

Ava shrugged. "You're not boring. That's better than most."

"High praise," Lady Miren muttered.

I looked at my plate, unsure if the ache in my chest was hope or hunger. "I don't even know what I'd be good at."

"You'll find out," Ava said. "We both will."

Gran reached over again, this time patting my hand gently. Her fingers were cool but steady. "You'll be surprised how much of yourself you find in new places."

The rest of the meal passed in waves—Gran humming, Ava tapping her fork against her teeth, Lady Miren rising with quiet elegance and disappearing down a corridor without another word.

I helped clear the dishes without being asked. Ava tried to steal more jam; Gran pretended not to notice.

By the time afternoon came, I'd been shown the tiny side room where I could sleep "just for now." I repeated my promise half a dozen more times.

"I'll leave after dinner," I told Gran.

"Of course, dear," she said.

"I really will," I said to Ava.

"You said that yesterday," she pointed out.

"I mean it this time."

But the stew came back out—rosemary and root vegetables, hearty and hot—and the fire was already lit. I sat on the rug near it just to warm my toes, but someone slipped another quilt over my shoulders before I could protest. Gran, again.

She chuckled as she passed by, her laugh like wind chimes.

And that's where I must've fallen asleep—curled on a borrowed cushion, cheek pressed against a too-soft pillow, the warmth lulling me into something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Safe.

"Charity case," I muttered once, eyes half-closed.

"You're not," came a whisper.

I wasn't sure if it was Ava or Gran who said it.

I didn't remember the rest.

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