“Decades,” he repeated, eyes filled with wonder. “Decades of your chaos.”
“Decades of your cooking,” she countered, kissing him again, tasting wine and happiness.
Behind them, Greystone glowed with laughter, spice, and love finally claimed. The ancient stones seemed to hum with promise, like even the castle itself had been waiting for this moment.
The taste of forever was sweeter than honey, warmer than wine, and exactly seasoned with chaos.
CHAPTER 23
Six months later
The morning sunstreamed through Greystone’s windows, gilding the kitchens in light and steam. Rachel stood at their massive oak table, coaxing a sauce into being. Cinnamon, cardamom, herbs from their garden—alchemy in motion.
“Pass me the nutmeg,” she called.
“Again?” Tristan asked from the hearth, firelight bronzing his skin. “What spell requires so much nutmeg?”
“The same one I work every day,” she said, grating with intensity. “Trying to create twenty-first century flavors with fifteenth-century tools. It’s like writing symphonies with wooden spoons and a lot of creative cursing.”
His laugh warmed the whole room. Marta hummed at her bread dough, Tom whistled hauling water, and even the scullery girls hovered hopefully for samples.
Greystone had been improved—gold and spices from the king funding repairs, gardens bursting, tapestries bright, and the kitchens… oh, the kitchens. Copper pots gleamed, ovens glowed, spice cabinets brimmed with treasure.
“You know,” Rachel said, stirring, “I don’t miss the microwave.”
“I know not this ‘microwave,’” Tristan replied, coming behind her to look over her shoulder. “But watching you work convinces me some magic is more beautiful than others.”
“This isn’t magic,” she said, leaning back into his chest. “It’s food science. Which just means transformation.”
“Like us,” he murmured, arms circling her.
“Like us,” she agreed, kissing him quickly before offering a spoonful.
He tasted, eyes widening. “Sweet Mary. ’Tis like tasting starlight.”
Her grin nearly split her face. “Reduction. Concentrated flavor. Told you—alchemy.”
A knock interrupted the moment. Hugo lumbered in, grinning. “Merchants at the gate. Londoners. Here for spice contracts, by the look.”
“Give us a moment,” Tristan said. He reached into his pouch and handed Rachel a silk-wrapped box.
“Tristan—”
“Hush.” He revealed a carved wooden box, full of treasures: vanilla beans, peppercorns, saffron threads, and a vial of rose water glowing like liquid sunlight.
Rachel gasped, breath catching. “This must have cost?—”
“Worth every coin,” he said simply. “To see your eyes light.”
Her walls crumbled like old mortar. “I love you, honey. So much it actually hurts.”
“Pray it does not,” he said gravely, smiling despite himself. “I’d be lost without it.”
The meeting with merchants was a triumph—Rachel’s sauces dazzling, Tristan’s authority undeniable. Contracts signed, orders placed, a real cookbook promised.
Later, by candlelight, Rachel recorded their experiments in the bound ledger Tristan had commissioned.Rose water transforms fruit compotes. Must repeat for harvest feast. Note: Tristan’s face was priceless.
Sir Whiskerbottom hopped onto the table, tail flicking. She scratched his ear. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew I’d stay.”
