The afternoon light filtered weakly through the smoke holes in the roof, casting pale beams across the furs where we sat. Outside, the winter wind howled, but inside my house, the fire burned bright and warm, and the company was better than any shield against the cold.
I had spread my experiments before us like a merchant displaying precious wares: small pots of tinted oils, crushed berries mixed with rendered fat to create rouges, charcoal sticks I had carefully burned and shaped for lining eyes, and the fine white powder I had managed to grind from dried clay and chalk. The girls had come to be my test subjects again; to let me practice the cosmetic arts before I decided to sell it.
"This one brings out the color in your eyes," I said, dabbing a touch of amber pigment onto Layla’s eyelids with a fine brush made from horse hair Rhonda had gotten from her mate Larry, tied to a bone splinter.
She sat still, remarkably patient for a female with seven cubs and another on the way; constantly underfoot, her face tilted up to the light. "It feels strange," she admitted, her lashes fluttering. "Like you are painting me for war."
"Not war," I laughed. "Beauty. Though in some ways, they are the same."
Rhonda sat nearby, her own face already adorned with a subtle pink on her cheeks that made her look flushed and alive despite the winter pallor. She my hand mirror I somehow was able to bring with me from my old world, turning it this way and that, admiring my work with a critical eye. "You never disappoint Krys. Every time you work on our faces we look like someone else. We look so pretty, I don’t even want to take the makeup off."
"You’d mess up your face if you leave it on overnight," I teased, reaching for a pot of lip stain.
It was then that Ryder struck.
I had not seen him approach, my attention focused on Layla’s face, my pregnant belly making me slow to turn. But I heard the clatter, the splash, the gasp that came from Rhonda’s throat, and I whirled to find my son with both hands buried in my precious white powder, the fine chalk dust coating his golden fur, his face, the furs around him, and the air itself in a cloud that sparkled in the firelight.
"No, Ryder!" My voice came out sharper than I intended, loud and sudden in the quiet space. "Goodness, you, that’s mommy’s work!"
I groaned, surging to my feet with a gracelessness that made my back ache, my hands reaching for him even as I saw his face crumple.
Ryder’s lower lip trembled. His golden eyes, so like his father’s, filled with tears that spilled over before I could reach him, cutting pale tracks through the white powder on his cheeks. "I’m sowwy, mommy," he choked out, the words thick with his toddler lisp, his small body shaking with the force of his sobs.
I hadn’t meant to raise my voice. The sharpness had come from surprise, from the loss of materials I had spent days preparing, from the frustration of pregnancy and winter and constant need. But looking at him, so small and sorry and covered in my failures, I felt the anger drain away, replaced by crushing guilt.
I dropped to my knees, heedless of the powder coating the furs, and grabbed him, pulling him into my arms. He came willingly, his small body collapsing against my chest, his face burying itself in my neck where the white dust mixed with my tears.
"It’s okay, Ryder," I whispered, rocking him, pressing kisses to his powdery hair. "Mommy is so sorry for yelling at you. So sorry, my love. But you can’t do this again, okay? These aren’t toys. They are mommy’s work." I pulled back to look at his tear-streaked face, wiping the white from his cheeks with my thumb. "Well, it will be work, when I get it right. Do you understand?"
He nodded, his breath hitching, his trust in me so complete that my heart ached with it. "Okay, mommy."
Then he was off, scrambling from my lap and darting toward the other room where his brothers’ voices echoed, the incident already forgotten in the way of children, leaving me kneeling in the wreckage of my cosmetics.
"Seeing you with Ryder," Rhonda said softly, her voice carrying a weight of longing that made me turn to her, "I miss my Lark."
She sat with one hand on her own belly, her expression sad and fond and far away. Thomas and Lark were still visiting family, still beyond her reach, and the separation wore on her despite her brave face.
"You can borrow my cubs," Layla sighed, leaning back on her elbows, her amber-painted eyes closing. "Please. Take them. Any of them. All of them."
We laughed, but there was truth beneath her words. Layla had seven cubs and another on the way, her body constantly in motion even in rest. She had learned only recently from her horse mate, Larry, that his kind usually bore only one foal, and that pregnancy lasted eleven months. The news had sent her into a spiral of calculation and anxiety, trying to map out which cubs belonged to which mate, how many more she might have, how her body could possibly survive.
She had listed them for us that afternoon, as if reciting a prayer or a penance.
"Karo and Kira," she said, counting on her fingers, "my two from my bear mate. Lydro, my son with my tiger mate Lennox. Jax, from my wolf mate Jared." Her voice softened. "And Rodrick... Rodrick gave me three before he died. Roa, Rody, Romy. My leopard cubs."
The cheetah attack had taken Rodrick from her and I could tell she still mourns him, but the three cubs remained, golden and spotted and wild, a living reminder of the mate she had lost.
"These cubs are giving me anxieties," Layla continued, her eyes still closed, her voice drifting toward sleep. "You are welcome to them. The both of you. Anytime."
"I do have a soft spot for those three," I admitted, reaching out to squeeze her hand.
"Well, of course you do," Layla said, opening her eyes to smile at me, a grateful, warm expression that lit her painted face. "You delivered them to this world. You pulled them from my body when I was too weak to finish."
"I was happy that I was able to help you," I told her, meaning it with every fiber of my being. I squeezed her hand again, feeling the calluses there, the strength of a female who had borne so much.
"Don’t get emotional on me here," Rhonda whined, though she was smiling, her eyes suspiciously bright. "I’m the one with the missing son. You have all your kids with you. I only have one cub, and he is with his father. The one in my stomach won’t be out anytime soon." She rubbed her belly with a gesture that was half affection, half frustration. "Months, Darius says. Months of waiting."
We moved as one, the three of us, gathering Rhonda into our embrace, a tangle of arms and bellies and furs, laughing and crying and holding on. It was a joyful day, despite the winter, despite the separations and the fears and the uncertainties ahead. A day to just hang out and not have too many cares in the world, to be women together, friends together, sisters in this strange and beautiful life we had built.
We separated eventually, wiping our eyes, pretending we had not been weeping, returning to the cosmetics and the conversation and the small domestic pleasures that made survival worthwhile.
But as the afternoon wore on and the light faded, I found myself staring at the smoke hole, watching the grey winter sky beyond, wishing for the thousandth time that this season would finally end. Wishing for spring, for warmth, for the return of those still away, for the new life stirring in my belly to arrive in a world of green rather than white.
"Soon," Layla said, noticing my gaze, her hand finding my shoulder. "Soon, Kyr. The winter always ends."
"Always," Rhonda agreed, and we sat together in the firelight, three pregnant females, surrounded by the chaos and love of our lives, waiting for the thaw.
---
Rhonda and Layla finally gathered their things, hugging me tight before stepping out into the grey winter evening. I watched them go from the doorway; two figures bundled in furs, disappearing into the snow, and felt the familiar ache of missing my own mother sharpen briefly before settling back into its usual place.
Then I decided.
The cold had seeped into my bones despite the fire, and my pregnant belly rumbled with a hunger that seemed bottomless. I wanted comfort. I wanted home. I wanted something from the world I had lost.
Cambodian babor. Rice porridge, warm and thick and healing, the kind my mother had made for me when I was sick, when I was sad, when the world seemed too heavy to bear. She would stir it for hours, the rice breaking down into creamy submission, the chicken falling off the bone, the garlic perfuming the whole house. Babor, a comfort food and easy to make.
With this weather, this endless winter, babor was exactly what my new family needed.
I smiled, one hand cradling my belly, and waddled toward the kitchen area, my hips aching with each step, my center of gravity completely altered by the life growing inside me. The kitchen was warm, the fire there banked and steady, and I gathered what I needed: rice from our stores, the preserved crowhen Caelion had caught, ginger root, garlic, the precious cilantro and green onions I had managed to grow in a pot near the fire.
By the time I was halfway through, I was frustrated.
My mates kept hovering. They kept asking if they could help, their big bodies getting in the way, their well-meaning hands reaching for things I had already organized in my head.
"Kyr, let me stir," Veylan said, his wolf-soft footsteps behind me.
"I can chop," Caelion offered, his hands already reaching for the knife.
"You’re doing too much," Ravin rumbled from the doorway. "You should rest."
"I am making porridge," I snapped, perhaps sharper than I intended, my spoon clattering against the clay pot. "I do not need five males telling me how to stir rice."
They fell silent, exchanging glances, and I felt the guilt immediately, hot and uncomfortable. They only wanted to help. They only wanted to ease my burden. But this was not a burden. This was memory. This was love made edible, and I needed to do it myself.
"Fine," I said, softening my voice, handing them tasks to get them out from under my feet. "Ravin, shred the cooked crowhen. Caelion, chop the cilantro and green onion, but finely, please, not like you’re hacking at a tree. Veylan, stir, but gently, like this." I demonstrated, the long wooden spoon moving in slow, steady circles. "Soryn, keep the fire steady. And Leon..."
"Yes?" Leon asked, his dark eyes hopeful.
"Sit there and look handsome," I said, and he laughed, the sound booming through the kitchen, and did as he was told.
The work settled into rhythm. The rice broke down as it should, turning from distinct grains into creamy, comforting porridge. The chicken shredded into tender strands. The ginger and garlic released their heat and healing. The kitchen filled with a scent that was simultaneously foreign and familiar, that smelled of my mother’s kitchen and my new life, of loss and love intertwined.
When it was ready, I ladled it into wooden bowls, the steam rising in fragrant clouds, and set them before my mates. The cubs had their own small portions, cooled and thinned, and they gathered around, curious and hungry.
"Try it," I said, my voice soft with sudden vulnerability. "It’s from my world. From my mother."
They ate.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the sound of spoons scraping wood. Then Ravin looked up, his golden eyes meeting mine, and smiled. Soft and surprised and delighted.
"This is..." He searched for words. "This is warm. Inside and out."
"It’s like being hugged," Veylan said, his wolf nature responding to the comfort of it.
"More," Chase demanded, his bowl already empty, and the others laughed.
I watched them, my five mates and my four cubs, eating my mother’s food in this strange world, and felt the frustration melt away completely. They loved it. They loved something from my home, from the life I had lost, and in loving it, they honored her.
I was so happy that they loved my food. And I was happy I was able to introduce a dish from my world, something my mother had taught me when I was small, standing on a stool to reach the counter, her hand over mine showing me how to stir, speaking to me in Khmer, her mother tongue flowing as naturally as the recipe itself.
I missed her dearly. The ache of it was physical, a hole in my chest that would never fully heal. But I guess this would have to do, cooking food she taught me when I missed her, feeding my new family with her recipes, keeping her alive in the only way I could.
I ate my own bowl, the taste transporting me across worlds and years, and for a moment, just a moment, and maybe it’s just my imagination, I could almost feel her hand on my shoulder, almost hear her voice telling me I had done well.
"Thank you," I whispered, to her, to them, to whatever gods might be listening.
And the winter seemed a little less cold.