Image by congerdesign from Pixabay Dearthart Justice was in the kitchen, scapular smeared with flour. “Hot in here,” Dearthart Eden pulled lir tunic away from lir chest. “You don’t have to be in here,” Justice worked the rolling pin, muscles bunching in lir arms. “Yes, but I wanted to talk to you about something that has been troubling me,” Eden leaned against the wooden counter. “Oh, not you too,” Justice swiped a sleeve across lir forehead, leaving a streak of white, “If one more person leaves the Deharthood to marry, I shall be forced to use miniature bread pans.” Eden laughed, “No, it’s not that. It all started with my desk. You know how it faces the window? I get so distracted watching the squirrels swirl around the tree like dancers, or sometimes there’d be a bird with a twig in its mouth . . .” “Not to mention that fool of a Dearthart that always waves at you from the path,” Justice eased the rectangle of dough off the counter. “Yes, we