Jack
I’m halfway through my toast when I notice Dyfri has barely touched his breakfast. Again.
He’s sitting across from me at our small dining table, looking immaculate as always in a charcoal jumper that looks as if it has been flown over from Paris Fashion Week. His hair is swept back in an intricate arrangement that must have taken at least twenty minutes to achieve, the wedding plait woven through it like a silver thread, and every other braid adorned with one of the ribbons I gave him.
He’s holding his fork with perfect posture, occasionally taking delicate bites of scrambled eggs, but his plate is still mostly full.
Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I saw him finish a meal.
“Not hungry?” I ask, gesturing to his barely touched breakfast.
Dyfri glances up, startled, as if he didn’t realise I’d been watching. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.” I set down my coffee cup and study his face. “You’ve been picking at your food for days. Are you feeling alright?”
For a moment, I think he’s going to deflect with one of his usual sardonic comments. Instead, he sighs and sets down his fork.
“The food here is...” He pauses, clearly searching for diplomatic phrasing. “Not to my taste.”
“Not to your taste how? Too bland? Too spicy? Too British?”
A ghost of a smile crosses his features. “All of the above, perhaps. Fey cuisine is quite different from human food. The flavours, the preparation methods, even the basic ingredients we use.”
Horror washes over me. “Christ, Dyfri. How long have you been essentially starving yourself?”
“I’m hardly starving,” he protests, though the careful way he says it suggests he’s not entirely comfortable either.
“You’re not eating properly.” I stand abruptly, suddenly feeling like the world’s worst husband. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“Because it seemed ungracious to complain about hospitality.”
The formal way he says it makes my chest tight. Always so careful, so polite, even when he’s suffering in silence. How many other things has he been enduring without complaint? How many small discomforts and disappointments has he simply accepted as part of his exile from everything familiar?
“Right,” I announce, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair. “We’re going shopping.”
Dyfri blinks. “Shopping?”
“For food. Real food. Food you’ll actually want to eat.” I’m already moving toward the door. “Come on.”
“Jack, you don’t need to…”
“Yes, I do.” I turn to face him fully. “You’re my husband. Making sure you’re properly fed is literally the least I can do.”
The expression that crosses his face is almost heartbreaking. Surprise, wonder, as if the concept of someone caring about his basic needs is revolutionary. Which, given what I’m learning about his treatment at the fey court, it probably is.
The Waitrose in Belgravia is busy for a weekday morning, though I suppose it is New Year’s Eve, a fact that seems surreal given how much it is barely registering in my life. I’m far too busy to acknowledge it, let alone celebrate it.
But most people aren’t as caught up in high stakes as I am, and the shop is filled with the sort of well-dressed shoppers who treat grocery shopping as a social event.
Dyfri is attracting more than his fair share of curious glances, though whether it’s because of his ethereal beauty even in his human form or the way he’s examining a display of apples like they’re alien artifacts, I can’t tell.
I grab a trolley and try to look like I know what I’m doing, though I usually just buy whatever’s convenient and cheap. Today feels different. Today I’m shopping for someone whose approval actually matters to me.
“These are quite small,” he observes, holding up a Granny Smith.
“That’s... normal sized for apples,” I tell him. “How big are fey apples?”
“Larger. And they taste of morning frost.”
