Nanna gets grumpy if the family is late for dinner. It’s the last tradition we have left, as she frequently reminds us. Except that isn’t really what makes me interrupt my sister’s rapid-fire gossip. With Papa in the wild camp and barely enough for the rest of us to eat each day, I’m simply not in the mood to be patient right now.

Marina glances over at me with troubled eyes. I must look like a troll, hunched there in the gloom in my bulky jacket. “I’ll come and see you later, when you get back,” she says to Therei.

“Make sure you do,” Therei says, also looking worried. Her husband was sent off on a work detail into the countryside beyond the city walls several weeks ago, and nobody has heard anything about him since.

Marina hurries after me up the stairs and along the corridor. I glance through the open doors as we pass by. Three children are playing peaknuckle in a corner. A woman is chopping up a bunch of greens. I duck my head, wanting to be back in my own private cubbyhole.

But in our own rooms, there is no escape for me either. Babet is already sitting at the table drawing a picture, and Nanna is bent over a bubbling pot. Jorzy appears from the communal bathroom, his hair slicked back wetly.

“Ah, I feel human again now,” he exclaims.

“What were you before?” Marina frowns. “A beast?”

He raises his arms and roars in her direction. Babet shrieks. Our mother with her cane appears in the far doorway. “What’s so funny?” she asks. “What did I miss?”

Jorzy roars again and chases Babet around the table.

Rolling my eyes, I start to slink off towards my cubbyhole. I don’t even feel hungry, which is pretty odd; maybe I’m sickening or something. Nanna hooks the arm of my jacket with her fingers. “Not so fast, mister,” she says, dragging me back. “Carry this over to the table.” She hands me the heavy pot. It’s brimming with a thick stew and my eyes widen. It looks like there’s real meat in it. Even more astounding: Nanna cracks a grin. It transforms her face. “An old friend brought us a rabbit today,” she announces.

“Who?” Jorzy asks suspiciously.

“Who? Who?” clambers Babet.

I plonk the pot on the table and sit down. Nanna starts ladling the stew into bowls.

“It was Hern,” she tells us.

Ma reaches the table and grazes her hand against the back of a chair, sitting. She leans the cane against her leg. “Hern?” she murmurs. “Oh, yes, he is an old friend,” Ma says softly, “a good friend.” She smiles. “If only we had some wine to toast him with!”

“Never mind wine,” says Jorzy, going over to the tap, “we have the purest beverage in the world.” Filling several beakers, he brings them to the table.