A Woman Named 'Ellis'

Part XVI - Inheritance, II

I. The Last Uncomplicated Table

The lights in the back room of the old café glowed amber, softening the chipped corners of the wooden walls and gilding the old black-and-white photographs that hung in tilted rows. It was a quiet corner of the Garden Quarter that time had mostly ignored, outlasting three regimes, two economic collapses and one revolution, but the booth by the window still held its claim.

They'd met there as teenagers once, full of big ideas and cheap notebooks. Now they sat again, older, maybe wiser, certainly busier, but drawn together by something older than politics, the certainty that once, before titles and elections, they had simply belonged to each other.

Marckus Marckson was the first to arrive, drumming his fingers on the table as he waited. Najwa Orr came next, breath fogging slightly from the winter air, hair tucked into a knitted scarf. Makram Hall followed with two folders under his arm and a subtle look of relief just to be there.

And then, predictably, Maria Langlais-Somers arrived last.

She burst in like a gust of assembly chaos, arms full of loose documents, a leather satchel barely holding together and a coat half-on, half-off. The door clicked shut behind her with a bell chime that made the owner look up, recognise her and then say nothing. Even now, the Chancellor carried her whirlwind with her.

"Sorry," Maria said, dumping everything in a corner. "Policy draft got returned with three amendments and a footnote the length of a novel."

Marckus was already standing, handing her a glass of something golden and fizzing. "You're late," he said, theatrically offended. "And I've aged significantly while waiting."

Maria took the drink, eyeing him over the rim. "You're twenty-nine, not eighty."

"I have a moustache now," he said proudly, giving the faint line above his lip a twirl that only made it look worse.

"You mean you've been cursed," Najwa said drily, folding her arms.

Makram tilted his head, squinting as if assessing a museum relic. "No, worse than cursed. It's ancestral possession. He's trying to resurrect General Marckson from the dead."

Maria groaned, laughing as she slumped into the booth. "Next thing you know, he'll be giving rousing speeches over eggs and toast. 'Comrades, we march for the kettle!'"

"I believe in national service," Marckus retorted, puffing his chest. "And in the sanctity of the Republic."

"You also believe in ordering hot chocolate with cinnamon," Najwa said, holding up his receipt like evidence. "The true legacy of any battlefield commander."

The laughter rippled through them, a kind of release none of them realised they needed. It filled the corners of the booth, warmed the bones, softened the edges of their roles. For a moment, the outside world faded, no headlines, no Assembly debate, no looming concerns about treaties or thrones.

Plates began to arrive. Flatbreads and stews, old favourites from university days. It wasn't gourmet, but it tasted like home. Once the teasing slowed and the food quieted the table, the conversation drifted into gentler waters.

Najwa's hand slid to her belly and a small, instinctive smile crossed her face.

"Five months to go," she said, almost to herself. "Doctor says everything's measuring well."

Makram smiled. Warm, proud. He placed a hand over hers, thumb brushing her knuckles.

"She kicks whenever I talk about Bureau budgets," he said. "That's how I know she's smarter than I am."