He doesn't look at me, too focused on his self-appointed guard duty.
"Cadeon," I try again, this time touching his arm lightly.
He startles, gaze snapping to me, and for just a moment I see the warrior he was, the weapon my grandmother made him, thething that lives underneath his careful control. Then he blinks, and it's gone.
"Apologies," he says stiffly. "I—I apologize."
"It's okay to be uncomfortable. But no one here is going to hurt me. Or you."
"You can't know that."
"No," I agree. "But I can choose to believe it anyway. Come on. Let's find these famous spices before I lose my nerve about this entire feast situation."
We weave through the crowd, and I'm acutely aware of Cadeon behind me. Not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the cold radiating off him. His hand hovers near the small of my back: protective, possessive, but not quite making contact.
The spice stall is easy to find: it smells like every herb and spice in existence had a party and invited their friends. An elderly woman with wild gray hair and sharp eyes stands behind the counter, arguing with a customer about the proper ratio of cinnamon to nutmeg.
"I'm telling you, Martha, three to one is far too much nutmeg. You'll give everyone nightmares."
"My grandmother always used three to one."
"Your grandmother also thought bay leaves were decorative. Some traditions deserve to die."
I wait until Martha huffs off before approaching. The woman turns to me with a grin that's more mischief than warmth.
"Ashwood girl," she says, not making it a question. "About time you showed your face. I'm Greta."
"Iris. And this is..."
"The vampire. Yes, yes, everyone knows." She waves dismissively. "You're here for wassail spices."
"How did you...?"
"Thea was by earlier, said you'd likely be coming. Also said you don't know what you're doing, which is refreshingly honest." She's already pulling jars from her shelves. "Wassail is simple. Mulled cider base, apples, spices. The magic is in the proportions."
"I'm good with proportions," I offer.
"She's not," Cadeon says quietly from behind me.
I turn to glare at him. "Excuse me?"
"You measure by feel. You dump spices randomly. You don't follow recipes."
"I follow the spirit of recipes. That's different."
"It's chaos."
"It's intuitive magic, thank you very much."
Greta cackles. "Oh, I like you two. Here." She shoves a wrapped bundle at me. "Cinnamon, cloves, allspice, ginger, nutmeg. Specific proportions written on the paper. Follow them exactly or don't bother."
"I can follow instructions," I grumble.
"Hmm." She doesn't look convinced. "You'll need apples too. Good ones, not the mealy nonsense they're selling at the regular stalls. Go see Thomas on the north side of the market and tell him I sent you."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when the wassail doesn't poison anyone." She's already turning to her next customer. "And you, vampire. Make sure she doesn't improvise. Wassail is sacred."
