The morning started with a spoon war.
Eira had taken Tristan's spoon. Marla had taken Eira's spoon. Shannon had tried to take both and failed.
"Sit," Eira said, pointing Tristan to the chair like he was a naughty puppy. "You will not lift a finger. Not even a spoon."
"I can lift a spoon," Tristan said. "I am not made of glass."
"Today you are made of very precious glass," Marla said, clutching the confiscated spoons to her chest. "A display glass. The kind nobles keep behind locked cabinets."
Shannon hovered by the door. He tried to look casual. He looked like a mountain pretending to be a coat rack.
Tristan sniffed the broth that Eira had shoved in front of him. It was ginger, light, and kind. His stomach fluttered. Not sick. Just shy.
Eira watched him sip like a hawk. "How does it feel?"
"Warm," Tristan said. "And like soup."
"Any dizziness?" Eira asked.
"Only from the hovering," Tristan said, glancing at Shannon.
Shannon straightened. "I am not hovering."
