"Wassail," I announce, spreading Greta's spice bundle on the counter. "Sacred, apparently. Which means we absolutely cannot mess this up."
Cadeon sets down the packages and moves to the table, taking his usual watching position. But this time, when I glance at him, he's not just watching. He's interested.
"Are you going to help or just supervise?"
"I was under the impression that helping would involve preventing your chaos."
"My intuitive magic is not chaos."
"You haven't read the instructions yet."
"I'm getting to them!" I unfold Greta's paper, which contains surprisingly detailed instructions and several alarming warnings about what will happen if I deviate from the proportions. "Okay. So. Cider base, apples, spices. How hard can it be?"
"Your confidence is concerning."
"Your pessimism is noted." I pull out a large pot and start assembling ingredients. "Come here. If you're going to judge my technique, you might as well be useful."
He rises from the table slowly, approaching with that careful grace. When he reaches the counter, he stands slightly behind me, close enough to see what I'm doing but not quite beside me.
"What do you need?" he asks.
"Apples. They need to be sliced. Thin. Consistent." I hand him a knife and cutting board. "You're good with knives."
His mouth twitches. "Adequate."
"Right. Adequate." I start measuring cider into the pot, double-checking Greta's proportions because I am capable of following instructions when they come with dire warnings. "So. Wassail. Do you know the tradition?"
"I've participated in wassailing ceremonies." He begins slicing apples with the kind of precision that should be illegal. Each slice is identical. Perfect. "It's meant to bless the orchard, ensure good harvest, drive away evil spirits."
"We don't have an orchard."
"Then you're blessing the cottage. The household. Inviting good fortune for the coming year."
"That's actually nice."
"Most traditions are underneath the ceremony." He's working steadily, the pile of perfect apple slices growing. "People forget that. They focus on the ritual and lose the meaning."
I glance at him, surprised by the observation. "Did Grandmother do wassailing?"
"Early on. Before she decided such things were frivolous." His jaw tightens. "She preferred efficiency over tradition."
"Well, I prefer tradition over efficiency. So we're making wassail, and it's going to be beautiful, and we're going to invite so much good fortune that the cottage won't know what to do with it."
"An ambitious goal."
"I'm an ambitious person. You'll learn." I start adding spices to the cider, measuring carefully. Cinnamon, cloves, allspice. The scent rises warm and sweet. "Okay. Now the magic part."
"Your intuitive magic?"
"My very carefully measured intuitive magic, thank you." I hold my hands over the pot, feeling for the magic that lives in my chest. It rises easily, warm and golden, smelling of herbs and home. "This is the important part. The intention. What we're blessing, what we're inviting."
"What are you inviting?"
I think about it, feeling the magic hum through my fingers. "Warmth. Safety. Joy. The kind of comfort that settles in your bones. Space to heal. Space to grow. Space to become whatever we're meant to be."
The magic pours into the pot, infusing the cider and spices. I can feel it taking hold, transforming simple ingredients into something more.
"That's beautiful," Cadeon says quietly.
