“You are much better at sitting still than Dhamiria, you know.”
“I pride myself in it,” Floris says, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile, his arms held still against the arms of the comfortable chair he sits in.
“Scoundrel.”
“I pride myself in that, too.”
Adeliya lowers her connected hands, looking at Floris and obviously trying not to laugh. “The problem is that if you keep making me laugh I’ll be the one not keeping still.”
Floris fights back his own smile next. “I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet until you’re done.”
“Thank you,” Adeliya says, the gentle smile on her face a testament to her easy graces. “We’re nearly there.”
Adeliya raises her hands again, creating a triangle a few inches away from Floris’ forehead, and a few seconds pass as she methodically works the synthesized hormones into Floris’ body.
“All done,” Adeliya says, sitting back. “Now you can move around all you want.”
Floris chuckles as he stands and stretches, Adeliya packing her satchel back up to leave Floris’ tiny room in the Slat. It never takes her long to weave the contents of the small vial under his skin, just like it doesn’t take more than a few minutes with Dhamiria—it does take less time for Floris’ weekly dose, according to Adeliya, but only because he’s much better at staying still and staying focused.
“I think, milady,” Floris says with an exaggerated sweep of his pale arm, “we have someone waiting for us downstairs. If you would follow me, Miss Drozdova.”
Adeliya laughs, clear and bright like bells. “I think you’re right,” she says delightedly, tucking her soft hand into the elbow Floris so graciously offers. “Lead on, Mister Roose.”
Down the steady stairs they go, arm in arm, laughter leading the way. The Slat feels lighter as a whole today, the sun returning in its full brilliance the weekend after the unusual storm had passed. The Slat is emptier and warmer than usual today as well, the lanterns unlit and the curtains drawn back, many of the Dregs venturing out into the streets of Ketterdam to enjoy the sun and the warmth.
“Took you long enough,” Dhamiria says, eyes twinkling, as Floris steps off the stairs. “Lucky you, the ugali is still warm.”
“Thank the saints,” Adeliya laughs, removing her hand from Floris’ arm as the two of them take a seat on either side of Dhamiria, settling in for a late breakfast. “All of this for a cold breakfast would be a horrible start to the day.”
The round table in front of them is set with plates, both serving plates and individual plates ready to be filled. In the center sits the food that will make up their breakfast together, no longer steaming but still warm and delicious looking.
Adeliya is the first to move, picking up a thick syrnik to put on her plate, then another, then a third, all fried to perfection. A ramekin filled with varenya is set on her plate next, sliced apples cooked in a sugary syrup.
“This is a nice change from silverware during every meal,” Floris says, following along with Adeliya’s actions and the instructions she had given him and Dhamiria for eating syrniki before the two of them had gone upstairs. The ugali Dhamiria brought, her mama’s recipe and a Zemeni staple, is a finger food as well, stiff and doughy and perfect for eating with the meat Dhamiria brought with it.
“The Kerch could learn a thing or two from Ravka and Novyi Zem, you mean,” Dhamiria says dryly, raising an eyebrow, and delighted laughter floats through the sunlit room.
The chatter dies down for a little while, the sounds of eating and appreciative noises toward the food interspersed with questions about how to correctly eat each one—”Roll it into a ball with your right hand, then make a divot with your thumb, like this. Yeah, that’s perfect.”—and the sound of cawing crows from the roofs filtering in through the open windows.
It’s peaceful.
The peace is broken in a quiet manner; The rhythmic tap of a cane signals the arrival of one Dregs leader Kaz Brekker, strolling into the Slat from the cobblestone street outside.
“How early did Brekker leave?” whispers Floris, watching Brekker stop in the doorway with a bewildered look.
“Yesterday,” Dhamiria murmurs. “He went out with his Crows. Apparently the Wraith is in town for another week or two before she heads back out to sea.”
“Mister Brekker!” Adeliya calls, startling both of her friends. Brekker’s head turns to face her, eyebrows arched. His eyes seem softer than usual. “Would you come and have syrniki and ugali with us?”
Floris almost doesn’t believe his eyes when Brekker nods and approaches with his signature limp. How is Adeliya so bright and friendly that she manages to invite a Barrel boss to breakfast?
“Syrniki and ugali are both finger foods,” Adeliya explains, setting a spare plate in front of the empty space between herself and Floris as Brekker sits down. “I brought apple varenya to top each syrnik with. The ugali is being eaten with beef, Dhamiria can show you how.”
“I don’t…” Dhamiria starts, dark eyes flicking between Brekker and Adeliya. “Ugali might not work well with your gloves, Brekker.”
“These aren’t my only pair,” Brekker says, and gestures to the table. “I’m a guest. I’m here to learn.”
A moment passes, but Dhamiria quickly gets a hold of herself and begins to explain the simple mechanics of correctly handling and eating ugali and beef.
Around them, the room slowly brightens as the sun rises above the tall, crooked buildings of the Barrel, shining down on the street and warming the cobblestones. The next Dreg through the door is Sebastiaan, laughing as he stumbles through the doorway, nose and shoulders red from the rare sun. Sebastiaan reentering to hide from the burning sun seems to break the calm silence, and Dhamiria sends Floris and Adeliya a flat look that makes Adeliya giggle as a veritable flood of Dregs spill through the doorway.
“I’m burnt to a crisp!” wails one of them, another laughing lightheartedly at his suffering as they head toward the table next to Dhamiria, Floris, and Adeliya’s.
The three friends share a look, stifling laughter at the carefree attitudes of the Dregs coming through the doorway. It’s not hard to recognize how the sun coming out has lifted their moods, and it’s safe to say that the rest of Ketterdam is similarly affected.
“Floris,” Adeliya starts a moment later. “Did you take the last syrniki?”
“No,” Floris replies, looking at the empty serving plate with a frown. “I’m full, three syrniki were more than enough.”
The two of them share a confused look.
Brekker quietly clears his throat and glances toward the table behind Dhamiria.
Previously empty, like all the rest were before Dreg after Dreg spilled back into the Slat, the table now has three occupants. The first, pale and freckled with a messenger bag at his side and a grin on his face. The second, a tall, dark Zemeni man in eye-searing yellow and purple, is unabashedly laughing at the third member of the table—an amused looking Suli woman with a half-eaten syrnik in one brown hand.
The Wraith is eating Adeliya’s stolen syrniki.
“What do you think?” Adeliya calls over to the Wraith.
“It’s good,” the Wraith says, giving Adeliya a smile and Brekker a subtle roll of her dark eyes—why, Floris has no idea. “Did you make them yourself?”
“I did. It’s my babushka’s recipe, she taught it to me when I was a little girl.”
“Will you bring them again?”
“Only if you sit with us next time,” Adeliya teases, blue eyes sparkling, a whisper of her bright laughter threaded through her voice.
The Wraith’s eyes warm. “I think I can do that.”
“I’ll be back next week with more syrniki and varenya,” Adeliya promises, her smile growing with every word. “I’ll bring berry varenya next time.”
The Wraith nods, smiling back at Adeliya, and turns back to her pilfered meal.
Floris and Dhamiria share a silent, shocked look.
“Your ugali will get cold,” Adeliya says.
Dhamiria’s eyes widen, and she scoops up a small lump of ugali to shape into another ball. The food really is delicious, even if syrniki and ugali might not be a typical pairing for a late, sunny breakfast. And if Brekker quietly excuses himself once his plate is cleared, limping over to the Wraith’s table where she pulls out a chair for him, no one would blame him. They have their own dishes to finish and friends to sit with, after all.
When the three of them are satisfied and full, dishes set aside to clean later, Dhamiria reaches into a pocket with a twinkle in her eyes and pulls out a well-worn deck of cards.
“I promised to teach you, Adeliya,” she says, “and I don’t break promises with friends.”
And then she begins.
Adeliya’s surname, Drozdova, is Russian and means ‘thrush’ or ‘blackbird’ . Floris’ surname, Roosa, is Dutch and means ‘rose’.
Ugali is a type of stiff maize flour porridge made in many parts of Africa. For the purposes of Novyi Zem I focused on ugali in the Great Lakes region, which Tanzania is a part of. It’s eaten with your right hand, and used to pick up other foods (like the meat Dhamiria brought, for example, beef being commonly found in the Netherlands) like flatbread or rice is in other cultures.
Syrniki (syrnik singular) are popular Easten Slavic fried quark (curd cheese) pancakes. In Russia they’re also called tvorozhniki, but for the sake of simplicity I went with the name they’re under in Wikipedia.
Varenya, or varenye, is a popular whole-fruit preserve from Eastern Europe and the Baltic region and a common addition/topping for syrniki. Apples are a native fruit of the Netherlands, so apple varenya would most likely be pretty easy to find in Little Ravka or, if all else fails, be something a homesick Ravkan or curious non-Ravkan could make themself with the proper recipe.
Thank you so, so much for coming on this journey with me all the way to the end. I can’t overstate how grateful I am for you, the readers, and for my little TWOS gang, especially my two lovely, endlessly helpful betas. My first large organized fandom event has been an EXPERIENCE (even if I'll never do this one again) and I'm so excited to take part in another one some day.