CHAPTER 199: THE DEMONS, THEY HAVE BEEN AWFULLY QUIET

Morning came back stiff-necked.

Not the kind you stretch away, but the kind that sits under the skin like a bad idea. Inigo felt it as he set rice to soak and laid a palm on the cold fryer. Lyra felt it pacing the front room, stringing and unstringing her bow while the window gathered a thin wash of dawn.

"Changes," she said, stopping long enough to watch him trim the wicks. "We need some."

"Codes," Inigo agreed. Three breaths and they had them: if Lyra said "we’re out of salt," Riko would bolt the shutters; if Inigo said "oil’s turned," Maddy would douse the flame and kick the back latch; if either said "potato ends," everyone got small behind the counter. Simple. Rememberable. Physics for people.

Riko arrived early, hair wet, chalkboard under his arm. Maddy followed with buns and a jaw set like she expected the day to try something and wanted it to.

"Got a line for the kids," Riko said, flipping the board. In neat block letters:

SMALL COINS ALWAYS WELCOME — ASK FOR POTATO ENDS

Lyra’s mouth tilted. "Bigger."

He wrote it large enough for the plaza. Outside, the city took a breath.

They opened to noise—flatter than cheers, heavier than chatter. Nobles jostled behind guards who pretended they weren’t there. Apprentices craned for a glimpse of the fryer like it might spit prophecies with the oil. Two off-duty spearmen posted at the back, hands nowhere near hilts and yet not far.

"Welcome to Mcronald’s!" Riko called, and the spell broke. Coins rang. Orders began.

"Two doubles," Lyra snapped, finding rhythm.

"Fries up," Maddy answered, steady.

Inigo laid patties, slid buns to warm, listening for that edge where a sizzle turns sure. Salt like a scale: pinch, toss, tap-tap. The line moved. The stall breathed.

Two men detached from the swell and didn’t order. They leaned elbows on wood with the posture of ownership. Cloaks too fine, boots too clean. The taller wore a gray enamel pin slashed with white—rain or road.

"Platinum fare," he said, eyes on Inigo. "You charge extra for the privilege?"

"We charge the same to everyone," Inigo said, turning a patty.

"How democratic." The other smiled. "Special people should get special things."

Lyra slid two wrapped burgers across with a soldier’s indifference. "If you’re hungry, eat. If not, move. You’re blocking the line."

The tall one’s eyes flicked to her bow. Humor drained; the pin caught light like a narrow blade.

"Another day," he said, filing their faces for later. They melted back into the crowd.

"You saw the pin," Lyra murmured.

"I saw it," Inigo said, and didn’t look at the door again.

By second bell, neighbors found their way forward like a current rediscovering a channel. The bookshop keeper tapped twice on the counter for luck. The baker—once a glarer, now an ally—sent his boy with a tray of day-old rye. "For your potato ends," the boy announced, proud. Lyra clapped his shoulder like a sergeant giving out a medal.

"Golden Fry?" Riko whispered when the brine’s spice lifted from the back.

"Second half," Inigo said. "Limited baskets."

Riko sprinted to the board and scrawled:

GOLDEN FRY — AFTER MIDDAY — LIMITED

The hum in line shifted from hunger to anticipation. People counted coins like heartbeats.

Then the city arrived with a seal.

Three men in slate sashes shouldered politely to the front, their politeness the kind that expected fear in return. The lead bore a copper-capped rod and a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

"Steward of Markets inspection," he said, flourishing parchment. "We’ve had complaints."

Lyra relaxed by a hair. Paper was a blade she preferred. "From whom?"

"Anonymous as the law allows."

"Then be quick," Inigo said mildly, reaching under the counter. "Lunch doesn’t wait for bureaucracy."

Riko’s fingers hovered over the till, Maddy’s over the salt. Lyra stood with a dishcloth and a look that promised a very clean inspection or a very short one.

The steward set a tin scale down and tapped it. "By Weights and Measures, are your patties honest? Portions accurate? Oil fresh, fit, and free from adulterants?"

Inigo set his own balance beside it, kissed a calibration weight to center, then weighed a patty on wax. The needle settled where it should. Again. A third time, because kitchens teach redundancy. A ripple of approval moved the crowd.

"Oil," the steward tried.

Inigo cracked the spare tin’s seal, poured a ribbon into a glass, held it to the light. No clouding. He slid the glass across. The steward sniffed, failed to hide his nod.

"Salt," the steward ventured, desperate. "Too much salt is—"

"Delicious," Lyra said. "And optional."

A seam twitched behind the steward’s ear. He produced a second parchment—permit revision, badly worded, stamped by a clerk who thought quills were daggers.

Elise appeared, cat-curious, and took it between two fingers. She held it to the light. "Rescinded six months ago. No countermark." She let it sag back like a wet fish. "If you’re going to harass the city’s favorite cooks, bring current paper."

The steward collected his tin with fragile dignity and retreated under a chorus of civilized booing. The baker’s boy said, too loudly, "My mother says your sausage weighs light," and laughter rose like steam.

Riko exhaled hard enough to ruffle a pile of wrappers. Maddy grinned at Lyra and mouthed, Potatoes live. Lyra allowed herself three heartbeats of satisfaction and went back to work as if nothing had happened.

"Golden Fry in five," Inigo called.

The fryer turned from hiss to hymn. Dip, dredge, lower, lift. Steam curled from the first basket like a hand asking winter to wait. The smell threw a rope over the plaza and hauled it closer. Inigo salted with his practiced shake; Lyra tapped twice; Maddy slid the cone to a girl with a chipped coin and a stare like hunger had finally met its match.

"It’s... hot," the girl whispered, as if naming magic might break it.

"Eat," Lyra said, not unkind.

Golden Fry turned the day. Tension dissolved penny by penny. Nobles ate with both hands and forgot to be offended. Apprentices licked salt and argued whether crunch was oil temperature or flour ratio. (Inigo, hearing them, almost smiled.) Even the spearmen allowed themselves a cone each with the solemnity of men recognized for quiet work.

A man three bodies down let out a theatrical groan and toppled, clutching his middle. The old bookseller tugged back a sleeve to reveal a soft wrist with a pale ring mark. "From the Houses," he said dryly. No boos; only laughter. The man flushed and vanished with the gracelessness of a plan discovered. Lyra watched him go, hand resting lightly on her bow like she might nock a rumor and split it in air.

"Elise?" Inigo said under the hum.

"Hmm?" She still lounged like this was theater.

"If the Houses send us actors, tell them to cast better."

"I’ll put it in the minutes," she said.

They sold out when shadows went long and the city decided to be beautiful again—lanterns blooming, children chalking spatulas and arrows on the stones, a bard finally finding a melody anything like truth. When the last basket crossed the pass, Lyra set both hands on the wood and let out the breath she wouldn’t admit she’d been holding.

"Sign," Inigo said. Riko flipped it to CLOSED with a flourish that owed more to exhaustion than showmanship.

They cleaned like people who knew what it meant to be allowed to work another day. Oil filtered. Flat iron scoured to an honest mirror. Bins wiped. Cash counted. Maddy tucked the SMALL COINS cone away like a good knife.

"Home," Lyra said.

"You know what, I’m getting bored. How about a new change of scene for a while?"

"What do you mean?"

"I’m thinking of the demons. They have been awfully quiet."