On the morning of the fourth day, I wake up a good hour and thirty minutes before Malachai's bedroom door usually opens.
The silence at this hour feels different in the sense that it's not complete. I know he's here, sleeping peacefully just a few doors down—if demons even sleep—and my hyper awareness of him has charged the air with something.
I sneak to the kitchen, keeping my weight on my heel to protect my twisted ankle, hobbling around the vast island as quietly as I can.
The plan is French toast. It's simple enough that I won't mess it up catastrophically, but requires enough effort that it won't look like a token gesture. I want it to say, 'I tried.'
I scan the fridge for ingredients. Eggs, milk. He'd returned him with fresh, thick-cut brioche yesterday and it resides in a bread box.
Good.
I assemble my humble findings on the countertop. I need vanilla extract. I remember spotting a tiny, expensive-looking bottle in the walk-in pantry during my restless wanderings.
