One evening they cooked from one of Quenby’s handwritten recipe cards, Sidonie reading it aloud, Percy laying out mismatched napkins, Ellard loudly protesting that no one would let him salt the pot.

And for a moment the three of them went quiet, looking around the bright kitchen.

There was a chair that would never be filled again.

There were six years no one could return, and scars that would stay under the surface.

But they were together, and they were sitting in the light.

Sidonie was alive.