“I know what it looks like when someone’s been practicing their technique in secret. I know what it sounds like when someone talks about ‘merely warming broth’ while they’re actually creating something that would make professional chefs weep with envy.”
He stared at her for a long moment, conflict flickering across his features like flames in a draft. The kitchen was silent except for the gentle bubble of whatever masterpiece he was creating and the distant sound of wind through the castle’s ancient bones.
“Why are you here?” he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Couldn’t sleep.” She gestured vaguely back toward the corridor. “Thought I’d check on Sir Whiskerbottom, maybe steal some cheese if there was any lying around. Instead, I find you creating what smells like the most amazing thing I’ve encountered since arriving in this godforsaken century.”
“’Tis nothing special.”
“Don’t.”
The word came out sharper than she’d intended, and she saw him blink in surprise.
“Don’t you dare diminish what you’re doing. I’ve eaten at restaurants that charge two hundred dollars a plate and serve food that doesn’t smell half as good as whatever you’ve got going in that pot.”
Something raw and vulnerable flickered in his eyes before he could hide it behind his usual careful control. “You speak of things beyond imagining.”
“I speak of truth. Of talent that shouldn’t be hidden away like some shameful secret.” She reached out without thinking, her fingers closing around his wrist where he gripped the spoon. His skin was warm under her touch, and she felt the slight tremor that ran through him at the contact. “Show me.”
“Rachel...”
“Please.” The word came out softer than she’d intended, almost pleading. “I’ve spent my entire adult life writing about food, tasting dishes prepared by people who call themselves chefs but couldn’t season their way out of a paper bag. I can tell the difference between someone going through the motions and someone who actually understands what cooking means.”
He looked down at her hand on his wrist, and she saw his throat work as he swallowed. “It matters naught. I am no longer?—”
“You are exactly who you’ve always been.” Her grip tightened, willing him to understand. “Whatever they took from you, whatever they said about your honor or your worth—they can’t take this. They can’t take your skill, your knowledge, your passion. That’s still yours, will always be yours.”
The silence stretched between them, filled with the gentle sounds of simmering sauce and the rapid beat of her own heart. She could feel his pulse under her fingers, quick and strong, and the way his breathing had gone slightly uneven.
“I have not... I have not cooked thus in many months,” he admitted finally, the words dragged out of him like confessions under torture. “Not since?—”
“Not since they broke your spirit along with everything else,” she finished gently. “I know. I understand.”
“Do you?” His free hand came up to cover hers where it rested on his wrist, his thumb tracing across her knuckles in a gesture so tender it made her breath catch. “Do you truly understand what ’tis like to lose everything that defined you? To have your very identity stripped away until you’re no longer certain who you are beneath the titles and expectations?”
The pain in his voice was so raw it made her chest ache. “Yes,” she whispered. “Maybe not in the same way, but... yes. I understand what it’s like to feel invisible. To pour your heart into something and have the world act like it doesn’t matter.”
He studied her face in the firelight, those winter-blue eyes searching for something she wasn’t sure she could give him. “Your food writings. In your land, they were not... appreciated?”
Rachel laughed, but it came out sharp and bitter. “Let’s just say that being a food critic in Kansas is like being a surf instructor in the desert. People tolerate you, but they’re not exactly lined up to hear what you have to say about the local Applebee’s.”
“Yet you continued.”
“Yet I continued.” She met his gaze steadily, seeing her own stubborn determination reflected in those impossible eyes. “Because sometimes the thing you love is worth doing even when the world doesn’t understand why it matters.”
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, recognition, and underneath it all, something that looked like hope trying to break free from behind his careful walls.
“The sauce,” she said softly, nodding toward the pot. “It’s going to burn if you don’t stir it.”
He blinked, seeming to remember where they were and what he’d been doing. His hand slipped from hers as he turned back to tend his creation, and she immediately missed the warmth of his touch. But she didn’t step away. Instead, she moved closer, close enough to feel the heat from the fire and from his body, close enough to watch the careful precision with which he worked.
“What’s in it?” she asked, genuinely curious now that she’d gotten past the shock of discovering him cooking in secret.
“Wine from the last good vintage in our cellars,” he said, his voice taking on a different quality as he spoke about his craft—warmer, more alive than she’d ever heard it. “Stock from the bones of yesterday’s capon. Garlic and parsley from the garden. And...” He hesitated, glancing at her sideways.
“And?”
“Verjuice,” he admitted, the word carrying the weight of confession. “The juice of unripe grapes. And saffron, though ’tis worth more than most men see in a year.”
