A storm has rolled in, melodramatic and ill-timed, preventing safe travel for those who intended to attend market weekend. It is, I suspect, a jealous display. Not everyone handles my approaching birthday with maturity.
So I remain at my forge, shaping steel into submission while thunder grumbles overhead. Unlike the sky, I possess patience. Inside the house, however, discipline is a suggestion at best.
It was Nephele’s idea, and mine, brilliantly co-signed, that her wards; Dong Quixote, Damascus Steel, and Cass a’Nueva, might coexist harmoniously with my own formidable trio. A merging of households. The finest Hestralian exchange. A masterpiece of domestic ambition. What we have achieved instead is operatic.
Dong Quixote has appointed himself defender of righteousness in all forms, which currently includes guarding cooling bread from “tyranny.” His bravery is disproportionate to his size and I adore him for it. When he squared off against Abuela Pan Duro’s stern baking regime, I very nearly intervened; out of pride, of course. He recovered admirably after being corrected by a loaf. There is resilience in him. A slightly flour-dusted formidability.
Damascus Steel, ever earnest and methodical, attempted to bring order to Abuela del Ron’s generous distribution of “fortification.” He approached the matter like a scholar of liquids, which she interpreted as a challenge to her authority. The debate that followed was philosophical, emotional, and mildly intoxicating. I watched with great fondness. His seriousness against her exuberance is a thing of beauty.
Last, but not least, Cass a’Nueva; a radiant, poetic man, has become the focal point of Tía Besitos’ unstoppable belief in destiny. She circles him as if he were a tragic prince awaiting discovery. He attempts dignity. He tries to charm. He bravely takes a shot at out-flirting a woman who weaponizes affection. It is adorable. He does not stand a chance.
Nephele is in the center of it all, attempting to maintain peace with the expression of someone who regrets agreeing to this alliance. I can hear her issuing firm instructions, negotiating boundaries, perhaps reconsidering her life choices. It fills me with warmth because I’m so fond of her wards. Truly. They are chaotic in the most sincere ways; brave, earnest, dramatic, and sometimes clever. They bring life into every room they occupy. They clash and tumble, argue and aspire, and it makes this house feel less like stone and timber and more like something alive. Even when Dong Quixote declares a pastry uprising, when Damascus Steel insists on measurable rum allocations, or when Cass accidentally encourages matchmaking sermons, they are splendid. Nephele, after all, deserves the chaos of it all with how much she owes me. Sometimes I catch her clenching her teeth, and this miniscule detail brings me no end of delight.
Between hammer strikes, I step inside to check on them under the guise of inspecting my wine collection. I count each bottle, dust them lovingly, ensure the labels face forward in immaculate alignment. My birthday approaches, and I will choose one bottle worthy of the occasion, one bottle of perfection to share with Tomaso and the rest of this beautiful, exhausting household.
I glance at the feastware I forged myself, polished to a reverent gleam. Ten settings. Balanced and prepared to travel with us to the market as soon as the storm permits.
The storm may howl, and the house may shake with laughter and flour and loud affection. Nephele may sigh in theatrical defeat while throwing her exasperated hands in the air. The truth is this: our home is fuller for their presence, and when the candles are lit and the table is set, and every chaotic, beloved soul gathers beneath this roof to celebrate me, as they absolutely should, it will not just be a feast in my honor.
It will be a feast for all of us.
