Author’s note: To cut the novel down to a more reasonable length, I had to axe several chapters that I enjoyed. This scene is the first time Asha and Owen have been forced to operate as friends. It’s the “how it started” that corresponds to the “how it’s going” of their performative normalcy one month on.

One of my favorite aspects of the scene is the wristwatch—a birthday gift from Owen’s father—as a metaphor for duty. Owen tries to leave the watch with Asha, but she rejects it, pinning it back on his wrist—demonstrating that she’s taking up the mantle of completing the quest, regardless of the cost.

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When the knock came at the door, Owen got up from where he’d been sitting on the floor. He opened it to find Asha, arms laden with parcels wrapped in brown paper. She wore a new tunic. The substantial handle of a fish gutting knife protruded from her belt.

“That bad, huh?”

Without waiting for an invitation, she brushed past him, heading for the kitchen. Owen wasn’t sure if she was talking about the water stains on the ceiling, the persistent smell of fish, or Eirian’s continued absence.

He let the door swing shut as Asha deposited her packages on the counter and began unwrapping them, revealing fresh bread, cheese, dried fish, several root vegetables. Owen leaned into the counter separating the tiny kitchen from the minuscule living area. Before Asha’s arrival, he hadn’t moved in an hour, yet he was exhausted.

“You can have this back now,” she said, setting something else on the counter with a soft click. When she removed her hand, he saw it was his father’s watch, which she’d been wearing since she’d taken her last shift.

“Keep it,” he replied. “I don’t want it.”

She held her left forearm before his face, showing off her new wrist watch. Its face was a deep, inky blue. Slender silver hands ticked steadily around the dial. Its case was matte nickel, its band dark green, bisected lengthwise by a white stripe edged with navy.

“If you don’t like the style of your old one, you should just buy another,” she said.

“It was expensive,” he said, reflexively shaking his head. “You shouldn’t spend Garo’s money so frivolously.”

“Well, I dunno.” Her bow-shaped mouth drew itself into a frown. “I thought maybe in Hammerstead they’re giving away nice watches like hotcakes at a festival.” Something beyond him caught her attention. “Actually, wait. Is that a radio?” She walked over to the window, where a small radio sat on a low shelf. “Can you make it to play music?”

Owen followed her into the living room. He adjusted a few dials until music filled the apartment—strange stringed instruments playing cascading melodies that seemed to ripple like water, accompanied by hand drums that spoke complex rhythms. The unfamiliar sounds lended warmth to the dilapidated apartment.

He glanced back at Asha, bent forward to watch his work. She let her eyes slide closed, a private smile crossing her face. Owen realized this was the first time he’d seen her relax since sruthchleacht in Dun Caolach, before Skylar left.

“Did you have a radio back home?” she asked, eyes still closed.

“Yes, in my father’s office. And in our bedroom. I spent many nights on the couch in the foyer because Myles would stay up late, listening to it.”

Asha opened her eyes wide. “I think that’s the most words I’ve heard you string together unprompted.”

He frowned, but she turned her gaze from him and let out a light laugh.

“Look, you have an oceanfront view.” She pointed out the window at a narrow slice of sea visible between buildings. Then, rolling up her sleeves, she danced backward into the kitchen. “Okay, rich boy, let’s get to cooking.”

Asha moved with the rhythm of the music as she worked, efficiently dicing ingredients. Owen noticed she’d already started eating pieces of vegetables between stirring and seasoning.

She noticed his attention and shrugged, unrepentant. “I’m hungry. Should we put chili flakes in the stew?” She held up a small jar.

“Leave them for the table,” Owen said quickly.

Asha prepared a bowl of stew—presumably for Eirian—then headed for the hallway. “E., you have to eat,” she called, knocking on his bedroom door. “You have to keep your strength up.”

Owen’s movements were mechanical as he ladled stew into his bowl, careful not to spill onto the counter as he operated with his left hand only. He didn’t want to hear the creak of door hinges or snatches of whispered conversation. A moment later, Asha returned to the kitchen, her face drawn like she’d just taken an unpalatably bitter drink.

They ate at the small table, which barely fit in the cramped space. When Owen reached for the chili flakes, Asha watched him like he was committing a crime. He finished liberally dusting his portion and picked up his spoon. She still hadn’t moved.

“What?”

“Owen, why can’t you just talk to him?” she sighed heavily.

Owen focused intently on his food, avoiding her gaze.

“I’m not surprised this happened,” she continued. “You know what pack animals do to resolve their problems? One leaves or they tear each other apart.”

Owen looked up sharply, teeth bared. “We’re not animals.”

“Yeah, that’s why you literally just growled at me.” Asha set down her spoon. “Are we ever going to talk about this?” She picked up the jar of chili flakes, turning it in her fingers.

“Acid reflux,” Owen muttered. “You were there when he said it.”

“But I would never remember something like that.” She leaned forward. “Please just apologize.”

“Look, this is not complicated: he quit; we’re getting someone new; it’s better this way.”

“Why are you so emotionally constipated? What about what’s better for me? What about ending the White Torches?”

“Better for you? I tried to tell you to go back. Skylar tried—”

“You are so selfish,” Asha said, her voice sharp. “You only care what happens to Eirian.”

Owen frowned. “He was in my way.”

“Owen, that boy would do anything you ask. You should ask him to come back.”

“We’re done talking.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

Owen glared at her. They finished eating in silence.

As he washed the dishes, working one-handed at the small sink, the repetitive motion of rinsing and scrubbing slowly unwound the tension coiled in his guts. The methodical cleaning process was calming, and cooking had been like a small science project—straightforward measurements, chemical reactions, observable results.

“Is that bothering your shoulder?” Asha asked, breaking into his thoughts. “Did you take anything today for it?”

When Owen shook his head, she set the tin of pain medication near his elbow on the counter.

“You don’t have to do things the most difficult way. The pain isn’t making you any stronger.” She exhaled, narrowing her eyes. “Hold still.” She picked up Conleigh’s watch from the counter and fastened it to his left wrist while soap suds dripped from his fingers.

“I would consider trying to find another mage,” she said with a deep sigh. “But have you considered the logistics? We’ll need a process for choosing and then some way to pay them. Do you think your Uncle Garo is good for that too?”

Owen nodded as he awkwardly toweled off their bowls and spoons one-handed. In the light of the fixture over the sink, the watch face glinted. Its weight was unwelcome. “There must be mages in Carrick. We can discuss it with Garo tomorrow.”

Asha hefted the stew pot into the sink and began scrubbing it vigorously. “You realize there’s no amount of money you can pay someone to care about you like Eirian does?”

Suddenly exhausted, Owen lifted the back of his wrist to his brow. He fought to keep his expression neutral as he lowered his hand to stack the clean bowls. “It’s better if he decides for himself.”

“Better for who?” she muttered. “What about everyone else?”

When they finished cleaning, Owen insisted on walking Asha back to her apartment. The night air was cool and salty, resonant with the ever-present sound of the sea. Electric lamps cast pools of light over weathered streets that had endured countless storms and the footfalls of generations of islanders. Fishers’ nets hung from balconies to dry, swaying gently in the breeze. Sea glass glittered on windowsills like tiny beacons. Despite everything, Owen found himself entranced by the unfamiliar cadence of this place.

Asha climbed the steps to her walkup and hesitated at the door. “Look, he’s my friend too. But you must have noticed it’s different.”

Owen shrugged, his face impassive.

“Apologize to him,” she said. “Please.”

“For what? He’s the one who quit.”

Asha sighed. “For anything he thinks you’ve done. Just try, Owen. It would be a lot easier than finding a new mage.”

“Goodnight, Asha,” said Owen, already turning to leave.