Thomas discovered that helping Sylvia live with it involved soup.
Sylvia sat at the small table by the bedroom windows, wrapped in a pale robe, with three medical bracelets on one wrist and the soft protective collar still fitted around her nape. Morning light spilled across the garden beyond the glass, touching the climbing roses and the damp stone path without reaching the expression on her face.
She stared at the bowl before her.
Thomas stood across from her. "Eat."
Sylvia lifted her eyes slowly. "That was not domestic."
"It was clear."
"It sounded like an order given during a siege."
"You need food."
She looked back at the soup.
The kitchen had produced something pale, smooth, and medically approved, with soft vegetables blended beyond recognition and enough seasoning to make it technically edible without allowing anyone to enjoy it.
John had delivered it personally.
He had been less cheerful today.
Thomas considered that an improvement.
