Chapter 13
I found Mara in the kitchen the next morning, elbow-deep in bread dough, working it against the floured counter with the focused rhythm of someone who found thinking easier when her hands were occupied.
She didn't look up when I came in. "Coffee's fresh," she said.
I poured a cup and sat at the kitchen island, watching her work. There was something grounding about it — the ordinariness of dough and flour and the smell of something warm in the oven. Small, real things in a place that often felt constructed entirely of tension.
I waited until she'd set the dough aside to prove before I spoke.
"Mara. Can I ask you something?"
She wiped her hands on her apron and looked at me with that careful, unhurried attention of hers. "You can ask."
"Why me?" I said. "When my uncle — whe
