Page 105 of Scornful

The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg fills the clubhouse kitchen as I roll out another pie crust.

It's not even seven in the morning, but Thanksgiving waits for no one—especially when you're feeding an entire motorcycle club and their families.

Three weeks we've been in lockdown, and somehow this cramped clubhouse has become home.

"More flour on the granite, honey," Aziza instructs, her expert hands guiding mine. "The dough's still too sticky."

I dust the surface with more flour, grateful for her patience.

The woman's a wizard with baked goods—her bakery's been closed since the lockdown, but she's brought her magic here. "Like this?"

"Perfect. Now roll from the center out, even pressure." She demonstrates with her own dough, creating a perfect circle in seconds. "We'll make a baker of you yet."

I laugh, though my attempt looks more like an amoeba than a circle. "At this rate, we'll be eating pie for Christmas."

"Nothing wrong with that," Mom says from across the kitchen, where she's peeling potatoes with Charm and Fern.

The kitchen's packed with women, all of us working together to create a feast from limited resources.

I woke to an empty bed this morning—again.

Geirolf left before dawn with Dad and my brothers, chasing another lead on the Patriot.

Three weeks of hunting, and they're closer than ever.

I can see it in their eyes when they return each night.

They’re exhausted, but they have a fire in their eyes that doesn’t burn out.

This war might actually end soon.

"How many pies are we making?" I ask Aziza, transferring my lumpy crust to a pie pan.

"Eight. Apple, pumpkin, pecan, and sweet potato, two of each." She eyes my handiwork critically but kindly. "That'll do fine for a first attempt. The filling hides imperfections."

Starla appears with a massive turkey, the third one we're preparing. "Oven's ready for this bird. How long on the pies?"

"Another hour at least," Aziza calculates. "We'll bake them in shifts after the turkeys are done."

The logistics of feeding fifty-plus people from a clubhouse kitchen requires a lot of planning.

Fern's got schedules and rotations down to the minute.

It’s chaotic, but at least it works.

"Astrid, can you check on the kids?" Mom asks. "Make sure they're not destroying the main room."

I escape the kitchen heat, grateful for the break.

The main room's been transformed into a massive dining hall, tables pushed together and covered with mismatched tablecloths.

Kids race between chairs, their laughter echoing off the walls.

The Halloween decorations are finally down, replaced with paper turkeys and pilgrim hats made by little hands.

"Auntie As–d!" Florencia crashes into my legs, Rio's daughter clinging to me like a vine.

At two and a half, she's a tiny tornado of energy, who can’t quite get my name right.

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