Phoebe's POV
I slept straight through until mid-afternoon, completely missing lunch.
Harold had already left the bed. When I made my way downstairs, I spotted Alistair hovering near the dining table with a troubled look on his face, like he was biting back words. Meanwhile, Harold emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron around his waist.
He held a bowl of thick soup, its cloudy surface scattered with what looked like chunks of stew meat.
Taking in Alistair's expression and seeing Harold dressed like that, I lifted an eyebrow. "Harold, did you actually cook this?" I asked.
Harold looked up when he heard me. "You're awake? Great timing. I whipped up some soup. Come try it."
I felt a warm flutter in my chest, rushed over, and dropped into a chair at the table, resting my chin in my palm with eager eyes. I made sure to ignore the kitchen trash overflowing with mangled ingredients and the remains of what used to be a casserole dish.
