Wren
Breakfast that morning was late, loud, and entirely without dignity.
We came down in robes with wet hair, all four of us, starving, and raided Berta's stores like wolves at a winter kill. Caius made eggs while wearing my apron, the one with the embroidered hens, and narrated the cooking like a tournament. Zephyr made his hot chocolate openly now, nine marshmallows, daring anyone to comment. Lucien sliced bread with surgical precision and fed me pieces of it with honey between his own bites, absent and constant, like breathing.
I sat in the middle of it in my robe, sore and glowing and ridiculous with happiness, and I thought: remember this. Whatever comes, whatever the world does next, remember exactly this. The eggs and the marshmallows and the honey, and three men who look at a T
