The time was approaching when he’d have to turn over his bed. He resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to get any more sleep and opened his eyes. The omnipresent buzz of life in the church went on all around him, laundry and cooking, cleaning and mucking out. Someone had even started a little group to sing prayers in the pulpit, the first time that sacred space had been put to its intended use in centuries.

Marcus stretched and sniffed himself surreptitiously—he hadn’t washed his uniform in three days, but given the general state of the place, it would probably be okay for one more. One small corner of the kitchen was reserved for “baths,” which consisted of a bucket of cold water dumped over the head and a tag end of soap. There was privacy only for those who could persuade a friend to hold a sheet in front of them; at this point, most of the refugees had stopped bothering, in spite of Mrs. Felda’s scandalized looks.

At least there was still food. Daily passing of a collection plate among the refugees secured some coin, and those who’d arrived with extra possessions were eventually convinced to offer them up for sale. Marcus was surprised that this hadn’t caused more than a bit of grumbling, but shared trouble had created a bond of solidarity, even across nationalities, and only a few Vordanai had complained at their treasured goods being sold off to help feed Borelgai women and children. Cora, given Mrs. Felda’s blessing to organize things, had deputized a troop of young women, older children, and fit old men to go out and purchase necessaries, in addition to dividing up the various cooking and cleaning duties.

It all worked, even though the closest thing to people in charge were a forgetful old woman, her slightly thickheaded son, and a teenage financial genius with a tendency to lose herself in books for hours at a time. Marcus had been prepared at first to get things organized on a proper military footing—he’d put camps together before, after all—but he’d quickly realized his assistance wasn’t going to be necessary.

But it only works as long as there’s food coming in, and nobody asks too many questions. They were relying on finite resources and goodwill, and both would run out eventually. He doubted the camaraderie of the last few weeks would last when rations started to shrink. Raesinia’s right. We have to do something, or this is going to turn into a nightmare.