The apartment smelled like ginger and scallions. Dumplings clicked against a steamer lid. Evelyn took off her shoes and stepped into the kitchen the way she had when she was ten and the only deal that mattered was dessert.
Her mother turned with tongs raised like conductors' sticks. “There you are. Sit. Taste. Argue only if the flavor offends."
Evelyn kissed her cheek. “Never."
Her father sat at the small table with a pen uncapped and the alliance papers spread like a placemat. He glanced up, eyes worried and proud at the same time. “I read the framework twice," he said. “I understood most of it the second time."
“Which parts didn't you?" Evelyn asked, pulling out a chair.
He tapped a paragraph. “Governance. Harrison's family proposes two seats on an oversight council, rotating chair.
