"Care is cheap if you learn it early," he said. "Rebuilding is expensive. I am thrifty."
"Thrifty," she repeated, tasting the word. It fit him in some ways and not at all in others. She let it stand.
The line had finished eating. Bowls went back in a stack—wood on wood, soft knocks counted like beads. Bones from the broth lifted out with tongs and were set aside for later use. Nothing wasted. Even the offal from earlier had a place—a little packet Silk tied tight to dry into something that, tomorrow, would be soup again.
She pushed her bowl away, fingers slow. The warmth in her throat eased the sound of the Brake Choir from a worry to a fact. The ember blinked, and the light in the cones made shy friends with the darkness above them.
