I leave the room before the man can say anything, with Daniil close on my heels.

“Nothing to worry about,” I say, stepping into the room.

I’m surprised to find Magda and Sverre re-entering from the kitchen rather than waiting for us. Sverre has a bottle of frostroot vodka clutched in one hand and a grin on his face, and Magda is ripping pieces off an algae sheet with her teeth.

“We got impatient,” she says without a hint of remorse, flopping across the couch before Sverre can reclaim his spot.

“Couldn’t find any water, so I took this,” Sverre says, uncapping the bottle and taking a generous swig.

A hint of shame in their behavior wriggles its way into my heart, but I ignore it and the look on Hort’s face as he shuts the bedroom door behind him and sees them. At least I know I made the right choice in letting the children stay hidden.

“Water and something more substantial than algae,” I order, and the man bows his head and moves to the kitchen.

First comes the water, and I have to order my team to briefly set aside the rapidly depleting bottle of vodka they’re passing around. Soon Hort returns with a fresh pot of soup. The broth is thin, but it contains a surprisingly hearty amount of kale and carrots and pale pink frostroot.

“Village grown,” he boasts, puffing out his chest. “We have a greenhouse with imported Devan soil.”

He stays long enough to be polite before disappearing into the bedroom with his children, taking a small portion of the meal with him.

I help myself to a serving of the soup but wave away the vodka each time my team tries to pass it to me.

“Don’t you ever relax?” Daniil asks me, after a few drinks have made him bold. He perches on the armrest of my chair, looping one arm around my shoulders and pressing his cheek to the top of my head.

“Job’s not done yet,” I say, not returning his touch but not pulling away. His nearness doesn’t make me uncomfortable, precisely—but neither do I want to encourage it, especially with him. Daniil has never been shy about his feelings.

“Not much work to be done during a storm,” he says, leaning against me.

Magda, now sitting on the couch with her legs draped over Sverre’s lap, clicks her tongue at us. She eyes Daniil’s arm around my shoulders, and I resist the urge to pull away from him. This is fine, I remind myself. This is normal for them. And even if it wasn’t, there’s no reason I should care what she thinks.