The smell of baking bread broke the morning gloom.
It wasn't the flat, sour smell of the gruel we'd been eating for a week. It was rich, yeasty, and warm. It drifted from the kitchens and settled over the quad like a heavy blanket.
Students walked faster. Heads were up.
In the dining hall, the mood had shifted from grim endurance to something fragile and hopeful. Gareth sat with a loaf of bread torn in half, butter melting into the crumb.
"Real flour," he said, mouth full. "Silas came through."
"We came through," I corrected. "Silas just opened the door."
Pelham sat across from us. He was eating with a knife and fork, but he was eating fast. "The rumor is we stole it."
"The rumor is wrong," I said. "We traded labor. It's salvage."
"Does it matter?" Mira asked, sliding onto the bench. She looked awake, which for Mira meant she had slept at least three hours. "The Foundation knows we bypassed the blockade. They won't like it."
