"The truce works like this," she says, not looking up. "You stay on your side of the street. I stay on mine. We wave politely if Vance is watching. End of discussion."
"That's not enough. He'll see through it in a heartbeat." I step closer, leaning my hip against the counter. The stainless steel is cold through my apron. "We need to coordinate. If he visits your restaurant during service, I need to know. If he walks into my tavern, you need to?—"
THOCK THOCK THOCK.
The knife moves faster. Carrot pieces fly off the board's edge, spinning onto the white tile. She doesn't chase them. Doesn't even flinch. The blade is a blur of reflected light, rising and falling in a rhythm that has nothing to do set up and with everything to do with the fact that I am still standing in her kitchen.
"I don't coordinate, Cleaver. I execute. Alone. That's how I've always worked, and that's how I earn my star."
"Your star won't matter if Vance buries us both in next month's column."
THOCK.
She grabs another carrot. Slams it down. The board jumps.
"I've survived twelve years in professional kitchens run by men who made Reginald Vance look like a greeting card. I've been screamed at in three languages. I've had stock pots thrown at my head. I've worked a sixteen-hour service with a second-degree burn on my forearm because the sous chef decided his hangover was more important than the salamander." The knife rises. Falls. "I do not need a barbecue orc to hold my hand through a critic visit."
The carrots are beyond batons now. She's breaking them down into brunoise, the kind of precision dice work that takes most cooks years to master. Her fingers curl under in a perfect claw grip, knuckles guiding the blade, and the pieces that come off the edge are so small and so identical they look stamped from a machine.
"I'm not trying to hold your hand."
"Then stop talking and leave."
"Rostova—"
THOCKTHOCKTHOCKTHOCK.
The blade accelerates. Orange fragments scatter across the steel surface like shrapnel. Her jaw is locked, the tendons in her neck standing out like bridge cables, and that loose strand of hair swings with every downstroke. She reaches for the next carrot without breaking rhythm, fingers closing around it, slamming it flat, and the knife comes down before it's even settled.
I reach for her knife hand.
My fingers close around her wrist.
The blade stops a quarter inch from the second knuckle of my finger. The steel hums against the carrot. A thin curl of orange skin peels away and drifts to the counter.
Solene's entire body goes rigid. Her pulse hammers under my thumb, rapid-fire against the delicate bone of her wrist. The tendons flex beneath her skin like piano wire under tension. She is very warm. She is very still. The kitchen hum fills the silence between us, the walk-in compressor cycling, the fermentation cultures bubbling softly in their crocks.
Her head turns. Slowly. The way a falcon rotates toward movement.
"Remove your hand."
"You almost took my finger off."
"Your finger was in my workspace. I don't control what happens to things that enter my workspace uninvited." She twists her wrist. I don't let go. Her dark eyes drop to my hand, to the massive green-brown fingers wrapped around her narrow wrist, and something shifts in her expression. A fracture. Barely visible.
"You're shaking," I say.
"I am not."
She is. A fine tremor running from her shoulder down through her elbow to the hand holding the Miyabi. The blade vibrates against the cutting board with a faint, high ring.
"When's the last time you slept?"
"That's none of your?—"
"Rostova. When."
The fracture widens. Her mouth presses into a line so tight her lips disappear. She pulls her wrist free with a sharp jerk and sets the knife down on the board. Carefully. Blade facing away. The way someone surrenders a weapon they still want to use.