I slam a bag of flour onto the counter. A small poof of white erupts from the top.
"I'm making bread," I announce to the kitchen at large. "My great-grandmother's recipe. The one she used to make before she decided to turn our family into a war machine. It takes four hours and requires three separate rises and I'm going to put so much angry magic into it that it'll probably come out tasting like spite."
"That sounds..." Cadeon stands rigid in the doorway. "Unpleasant to eat."
"It's going to be delicious and you know it."
"I don't actually need to eat."
"But you can taste. So you're going to taste this bread and tell me if my magic is less valid than setting things on fire."
He doesn't argue. Just moves to sit at the kitchen table, watching me with something that might be amusement. Yes, definitely saw a crinkle around his eyes.
I start measuring ingredients. Flour. Salt. Yeast. My hands move through the familiar motions while my mind spins.
"I shouldn't have gone tonight," I say, dumping flour into a bowl with unnecessary violence. "I don't belong with them. I don't have the right kind of magic. The right kind of power. I'm just going to disappoint everyone the same way I disappointed her."
"You're making a mess."
I look down. There's flour everywhere. On the counter. On my hands. Somehow in my hair.
"I'm stress-baking. Mess is implied."
"I see." He's definitely amused now. I can hear it in his voice, even if his face hasn't changed. "And the bread will be edible despite the... violence?"
"The bread will be perfect. Anger makes excellent bread. It's the kneading." I start combining ingredients with more carenow, feeling my magic hum to life. "You have to really work the dough. Channel all that frustration into gluten development."
"Gluten development."
"It's very important."
"I'm sure it is."
I pause, looking at him. He's sitting very properly at the table, hands folded, expression perfectly neutral. But there's something in his eyes. Something that might be humor.
"Are you making fun of me?"
"I wouldn't dare."
"You are. You're making fun of me."
"I'm simply observing that you appear to be at war with your ingredients."
"This is how you make bread!"
"If you say so, Mistress Ashwood."
"It's Iris. And stop being amused. You're supposed to be terrifying and traumatized, not... not whatever this is."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Barely. But I see it.
"Oh my god," I blurt, staring at him. "You have a sense of humor."
"I assure you, I don't."
"You absolutely do. It's just incredibly dry. Like mine." I point my spoon at him. "You're funny."
"I am a centuries-old vampire with an extensive history of violence. I am not funny."
