The evenings had begun to feel almost easy.
That was strange enough on its own.
They ate with the household Sennet had opened to them, crowded around a low table with more people than chairs. The food bore no resemblance to anything Blessed—dense bread, roasted roots, something spiced and tender that Nyx had stopped asking questions about after her third serving—and seemed better for the lack of familiarity.
Conversation moved through the patchwork language Isole had spent the week assembling from gestures, repetition, and the patience of people willing to say the same word six times.
It was nowhere close to fluency.
Most nights, it was enough.
Enough to ask for more food without pointing. Enough to understand when someone was teasing. Enough to feel like guests rather than six strangers who had not yet been asked to leave.
