Ashna forced herself not to squeeze the tea ball too tight. Fidgeting made her look helpless, and she was anything but helpless. She dropped her arms loosely at her sides and acted as though this didn’t feel like being kicked in the gut.

“We had thirty tables today, and we’ve had twenty-five a few times this week. It’s an upward trend.” More than anything, she wanted to give Mandy a raise, give her entire staff raises.

“You know the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, right?” Her assistant’s hand on her hip was a familiar pose, but Mandy had never taken that tone with her.

Ashna had hired her five years ago, after Mandy’s teenage daughter left her month-old baby sleeping in Mandy’s house one night and disappeared. When Mandy came in for the interview, her desperation wrapped tight in the cloak of cheery optimism had felt only too familiar to Ashna. She’d let Mandy set up a cradle and playpen for the baby in the room behind the kitchen. As someone whose mother had walked away from her without a backward glance, anyone who did not abandon a child had Ashna’s full support.

Then two years ago Mandy’s daughter returned for her baby, setting the harried grandma free, but Mandy had stuck with Ashna. The look on her face said that the statute of limitations on that obligation had come to an end.

“You wouldn’t be the first person to call me insane for holding on to Curried Dreams,” Ashna said gently.

“If you hadn’t reverted to the old menu, our thirty-table dinner rush might be a hundred-person rush by now.” Mandy was never going to let that go.

Ashna squeezed the bridge of her nose, then pulled her hand away. “I understand that our financial condition is frustrating to you.” She sounded imperious, much like her royal ancestors, and tossed in a smile, because she had to stay upbeat. “But Curried Dreams stands for something.”

Irritation flooded Mandy’s face, freckles darkening against her pale skin. “It stands for decrepitude and dated recipes, Ashna.”

Ashna’s hands squeezed into fists. “Where I come from, we call it history and tradition.” And respect for the dead.

That last part stayed unsaid. Nonetheless, it echoed through the spotless (not decrepit, thank you very much) kitchen, and Mandy’s eyes softened in response.

She sighed, half remorseful, half giving up the fight. “Where I come from, there’s no trust fund to indulge my need to stay stuck in the past.”

Ashna’s smile slid off her face. She unclenched her fists. “I have to run Curried Dreams the way I want to run it,” she said quietly, surprising herself with how calm she sounded.

Mandy buttoned her jacket. “Even if it means running it into the ground?”