"Good. Then my evil plan is working."
"Evil plan?"
"To make you enjoy things. To remind you that you're allowed to want things. To teach you that life can be more than just duty." I turn off the heat under the wassail, letting it cool. "Very evil. Extremely nefarious."
"The most nefarious plan I've encountered in centuries," he agrees, and there's something in his voice that makes my chest feel too full.
We stand there in the kitchen, the first batch of wassail cooling between us, cinnamon in my hair and warmth in the air and something new building in the space we share.
The revelation that he can be happy and I want to be the one who makes it happen
Cadeon
"We're decorating."
I look up from “The History of House Ashwood” I've been pretending to read. In truth, I've been watching her move around the library for the past hour, cataloging books with the same chaotic enthusiasm she brings to everything else. She's wearing an old work dress, her hair escaping its braid, and she has ink on her cheek from where she touched her face while writing.
She's beautiful.
The thought arrives unbidden, unwelcome, and entirely accurate.
"Decorating," I repeat, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
"Yes. For Midwinter. With evergreens and candles and probably some enchanted nonsense that will inevitably go wrong." She's already pulling on her warmest coat, which is patched at the elbows and smells faintly of lavender. "Grandmother never decorated, which means we absolutely must."
"That logic is questionable."
"That logic is perfect. Come on." She rushes out of the room and returns to hold out my coat like I'm a child who needs help dressing. "We need to gather boughs from the forest."
"It's snowing."
"It's winter. It's always snowing here."
"The temperature is dropping rapidly. There's a storm coming."
"Which is why we're wearing coats." She shakes the coat at me with the determined expression that means she's made up her mind and logic will not sway her. "Are you coming or do I have to go alone and inevitably get lost because my sense of direction is terrible?"
The threat of her going alone decides it. I close the book and stand, taking the coat from her hands.
"You're going to insist on this regardless of weather conditions."
"I am."
"Even though it's impractical and potentially dangerous."
"Yep."
"You're impossible."
"Thank you." She grins at me, bright and unrepentant. "I'll take that as a compliment."
I should argue further. Should explain all the tactical reasons why going into the forest during a snowstorm is inadvisable. Should point out that decoration is frivolous when we have more pressing concerns: the feast, the bond-weakening, the fact that I haven't fed in four days and am starting to feel the edge of hunger.
Instead, I pull on my coat and follow her out the door.
Because apparently, I'm incapable of denying her anything.
The forest is quiet in the way that precedes heavy snow.
