Page 74 of Ren: Warlord Brides
“So, you and Ren.” Thalia practically vibrated with excitement. For such a small person, she took up a lot of space. “Give me the dirty details.”
“No.” Emry shifted through a display of kitchen knives, testing the handles and the weight. Sangrins were human-sized, broadly speaking, so the tools were the correct size. She was just fussy, especially about knives. A knife needed to feel good on her hand, to have a balanced weight, and a blade sharp enough to slice cleanly. Dull blades caused accidents.
“But years. Years! Ren is my friend, and he’s never mentioned you, not once. Not even a hint about his secret human mate.”
Emry turned to face the chattering woman, still holding the chef’s knife. Thalia’s eyes went wide.
“Oh. Sorry.” Emry set the knife down. “His home planet wasn’t safe, so I went back to Earth.”
Thalia made a knowing noise. “Right, right. That makes sense. Take it from my firsthand experience: their old warlord was a bag of dicks. When we’re done here, and don’t take this as my trying to rush you, I’d like to check out the clothing shops.”
“Not a problem.” Emry selected two new pots, a skillet, a set of mixing bowls, a variety of utensils, and dishcloths.
“Do we really need all this?” Thalia asked as the purchases were packed into a delivery drone.
“You have one medium-sized pot. One. Who lives like that?”
“When all you eat is instant noodles, it’s fine.”
“Yeah, yeah. Nutritionally adequate noodles. I despair for you,” Emry said. For a moment, she feared she’d gone too far.
Thalia laughed. “Our eating habits are pretty atrocious.”
Emry schooled her expression to be neutral and not at all the judgey face of a food snob. Thalia noticed her struggle, which earned more laughter.
They left the cool shade of the shop for the bright sunshine of the open-air market. Various shops lined two roads, intersecting at a plaza dotted with café tables and sun umbrellas.
“Sorry, I don’t want to be rude,” Emry said with sincerity. “Food is important to me. I’m very much a food-is-love person.”
“You’re a chef, right? I’d expect nothing less.” Thalia pointed to a shop down the street. “Let’s go in there. I don’t know how you’re situated for underthings. The fabric replicator on theJudgmentis fine, but your choices are gray and light gray. If you want something pretty or,” she made a purring noise, “best grab it now.”
Emry had seven perfectly functional pairs of underwear she rotated through. “A little variety won’t kill me.”
At the shop, Emry picked up a sleep set, the fabric so soft it felt like holding a cloud. She had clothes. Functional clothes, practically the instant noodle of clothing. Who did she have to impress, anyway? She packed light for her two-year contract, bringing half a dozen new chef’s coats and maybe as many tank tops to wear underneath. No one cared what she wore other than the chef’s coat.
“That’s a good color on you,” Thalia said.
“I shouldn’t.” Emry hesitated to return the sleep set to the display table. She wanted more than the instant noodle of wardrobes, but it was an expense she couldn’t afford. New pots and pans. Yes. That was a necessity. Clothes? What she had was fine, if boring.
Then again, Ren told her to get whatever she pleased. She hadn’t thought twice about outfitting the kitchen with equipment that wouldn’t bring her to tears, so why not other stuff?
Emry picked out a few pairs of panties in a soft fabric that felt like water in her hands. Bras, camisoles, socks, pajama bottoms, and sleep tanks were added to the cart. At another shop, she selected a sensible pair of trousers and a knit top. Thalia convinced her to try on a pale blue A-line dress. Emry never bothered with dresses. Her work uniform was strictly comfy pants, long-sleeved shirts, and things she didn’t care if they got sweaty and forever smelled like garlic and grease. When would she wear a dress?
She twisted in front of the mirror to inspect her reflection, unable to say no.
Maybe someday.
The thought felt too much like planning for the future and plans never worked out for her. Still, she purchased the dress.
Another delivery drone packed, they stopped at a café for lunch.
“Do you ever wonder about the Mahdfel economy?” Emry asked. “It doesn’t seem sustainable. All those ships and weapons, not to mention just the sheer amount of money needed to feed everyone.” Let alone keep them in clothes, houses, with clean water, medical care, and education. The list kept growing in her mind.
“Oh, they license off tech. Mostly medical, I think,” Thalia said. “The military tech they give away, but you pay through the nose for advanced meds.”
“Huh.” She remembered the car accident and her stay in the hospital. How much of her treatment had been thanks to Mahdfel tech?
“But not the stasis chamber. Those they keep under strict control.” Thalia frowned like she remembered something distasteful. “Which is short-sighted because that only means the black market is flooded with knockoffs and old, broken stasis chambers, which is dangerous.”
