POV: Mara
The inspectors arrive at dawn with clipboards and faces that don’t like food. Three of them. One tall, one thin, one who looks like he chews pencils for joy.
Their boots squeak on the clean stone, the kind of squeak that says I belong everywhere I step. The lanterns overhead are still warming into full brightness, throwing long shadows across the prep tables. Pia mutters under her breath, “They smell like boiled socks,” and I almost choke trying not to laugh.
“Kitchen,” the tall one says. “Ledgers. Staff list. Storage keys.”
“Welcome,” Silvie answers. Her smile could cut rope. “We’ll go in order. You’ll wash your hands before you touch anything.”
They hate that. Good.
The tall one’s eyebrows jump like the words offended them personally. The pencil-chewer stares at the washbasin as if the water might unionize against him. They wash anyway, doing it badly, fingertips barely getting wet. Silvie watches like she’s judging an audition. She is.
We move station by station. Ovens. Cold room. Knife rack. I hand over the sweep ledger. Every page neat. Every line squared. The thin one tries to smudge the ink with his thumb. It doesn’t budge.
“Who writes these?” he asks.
“We all do,” I say.
He squints at my script. “You do most.”
“I do my share,” I answer.
His mouth twitches like he wants to argue but can’t find a rule that lets him. He settles for looking suspicious, which is his resting state.
Pia leans on the counter with a limp wrist and big eyes. “Sir, do you want a dumpling? Or ten? I’m so scared when men frown. I start giving away carbs.”
The tall one is immune. The pencil-chewer almost smiles. “No, thank you,” he says, then remembers to scowl.
Pia gasps dramatically, hand on her forehead. “Then at least let me offer emotional support dumplings.”
The pencil-chewer looks at her like she’s a puzzle missing its corner piece. Which she is. Which is why everyone loves her.
The thin one points to a line. “What is this entry? ‘Storm-whistle issued.’ Why is a kitchen issuing whistles?”
“So people don’t die,” I say. “Do you want me to put a heart next to it so it looks cute to you?”
Silvie clears her throat. I bite my tongue.
The thin inspector huffs and pretends to write something extremely important on the clipboard. His handwriting is probably crooked.
The door opens. I feel him before I see him. Cael steps in like he just happened to be passing. Jax behind him, hands behind his back.
The air shifts. Even the ovens seem to stand straighter.
“Inspection?” Cael says, mild.
“Yes,” the tall one replies. He puffs up a little. “We’re in charge here.”
“Wonderful,” Cael says. “I’m here to observe.” He leans on the end of the table, casual, like he isn’t a wall. “Hearthworks is essential. Any questions about their protocols come to me after you’re done with them.”
The thin one mutters, “Influence,” under his breath.
Cael hears. “You’re welcome to call it interest in public safety,” he says. “Or you can call it my job. Your choice.”
His voice stays calm, but it edges like a knife turning just enough to show it’s sharp. Jax glances at him, an almost-smile tugging at his mouth. The inspectors flinch like boys caught stealing fruit.
The tall one flips a page in the ledger, tries to regain ground. “Keys. Who has them?”
“Me,” Silvie says. “Jax. Two seniors on each shift.” She names them. “We count them at dawn and dusk. If a key gossips, we take away its friends.”
The pencil-chewer snorts. “Fine,” he says. “Storage?”
We walk. They poke at flour, peer at jars, sniff for things that make reports. They open lids like they expect a crime to jump out and bite them. Pia trails behind, narrating in a dramatic whisper: “Here rests the sacred spice rack. Handle with reverence or be smitten.” She is trying to annoy them. It works.
I hate them and I respect the job, both at once. My hands stay behind my back so I don’t wring them. Aster sits close to my ribs, coiled, alert. Even she doesn’t trust this smell of ink and authority.
We finish. The tall one closes his clipboard and says, “Acceptable,” like it hurts.
“Thank you for your service,” Silvie says sweetly. She means the opposite.
They leave. The door swings shut. My body sags. Pia leans her head on my shoulder. “I hate men with clipboards.”
“Same,” I say.
The tension leaks out of the room the moment their footsteps fade down the hall. Someone exhales loudly behind me; someone else mutters, “May their socks stay eternally damp.” It’s the truest curse in Hearthworks.
I carry the empty tray to the hall. The corridor is quiet. Voices echo from the small office two doors down. Jax. Cael. Low, fast.
“Too obvious,” Jax says. “You showed up like a flag.”
“Let them think I care about the kitchens,” Cael answers.
“They already know you care about the kitchens,” Jax says. “I’m talking about Mara.”
I stop breathing. I press my back to the wall, eyes closed.
My pulse climbs into my throat, beating so hard it feels like it might knock loose a rib. The tray sweats in my palms; the metal chills fast. Every word floats through the crack in the door like a glass splinter.
A chair scrapes. Jax again, softer now. “You can’t keep doing this. It paints a target on her.”
“I know,” Cael says—quiet, raw. “I know.”
Something in his voice cracks on the second know, barely audible. Like regret wearing armor that doesn’t quite fit. The kind of sound that makes Aster stir in a low warning, unsure whether to brace or soften.
My chest hurts. I put my palm there to make it slow down. I don’t know if I’m angry or grateful or both. I want to walk in and tell them to stop saying my name like it’s a door. I don’t. I walk away very quietly.
And the silence I carry with me feels heavier than any tray.