The compound marked the solstice every year, a tradition that had started, Sera had learned, long before she arrived — something Maren had instituted decades ago, not religious exactly, just a marking of the year's darkest point and the promise, built into the calendar itself, that the light would return.
This year it fell on a Saturday, which meant the whole compound could properly gather rather than working around shifts and schedules. Long tables set up in the main hall, the kind of cooking that took all day, candles because the tradition called for candles, the specific ritual of everyone bringing one dish that meant something to them rather than the usual rotation of kitchen duty.
Lena's bread, predictably, made an appearance — and beside it, this year, a second loaf, slightly diffe
