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“This way,” I say, starting out of the garden.

But Oshli makes no move to follow. “I need to finish treating her.”

I don’t argue. I bend down and touch my forehead to my sister’s, untraining my mind from years of fearing those liquid amber eyes.

“Do you want any cakes?” I ask her gently.

My sister shakes her head.

It seems too cruel to remind her that it’s her birthday. “I guess tigers don’t eat cakes,” I say, awkwardly trying to make her smile. “Soup?”

“I’m not hungry.” Vanna’s light makes an agitated flicker. “You go. I’ll rest here. Oshli will take me to the port.”

“All right.” I hug her. She smells of rain and moon orchids and—I hide a smile.

“You should have Oshli wash your fur,” I whisper into her ear. “You smell like durian.”

Finally, I’m rewarded with a laugh. Even as a tiger, Vanna has a laugh like music. It sounds like a mellow horn, and I could listen to it for hours. I almost forget my hunger.

Almost.

Fighting always makes me hungry. Until I fill the hollow of my belly, I’m useless. I need to replenish my strength before the next battle with Angma.

The smoke does indeed indicate a kitchen. It’s vast enough to accommodate even Hokzuh, who follows me inside without a word. The servants flee upon our arrival, and I make myself at home.

Most of the celebration food has gone to the injured in the healing houses, but there are baskets of eggs and yams and peppers, of freshly steamed bread under a mesh net, and skewers of uncooked meats.

I hover beside a pot of fish soup. I toss carrots inside to sweeten the flavor, then throw a few pieces of bread onto a copper pan and crack an egg over them.

“What are you making?” says Hokzuh, sniffing hungrily.

“For a dragon demon, you certainly have an appetite for human food.”

He smacks his thick lips. “Is that lard for pork noodles?”

“It’s for frying the bread.”

“The carrots?”

There’s a note of revulsion in his tone as he glances into my pot. Guess the dragon demon doesn’t like vegetables. “Just trust me.”

Bread for greasy, fried goodness, and soup to warm up my cold blood. An ideal breakfast. I’ll make an extra portion for Vanna and pack it for our ride across the sea.

“You like cooking.”

I do. It calms me and gives me a sense of purpose.

“I grew up in a kitchen.” I scrape off bits of fried bread clinging to the pan. “Vanna used to say it wasn’t fair that I had to sleep with all the pots and dishes. She’d try to ask Adah to give me my own room.”

“But he didn’t.”

“I always stopped her from asking. I figured if I was going to be surrounded by walls, then let it be a kitchen. After all—”

“It’s where all the knives are,” Hokzuh finishes for me.

Yes. Exactly. That flip in my stomach again, and it’s not from hunger.

Pressing my lips tight, I impale a slice of bread with a stick. “Well, we had only one good knife back then.”