The look he gives me could melt iron. But he schools his expression quickly, reaching for the first list with renewed focus.
"Very well. First, the menu.”
What follows is the most organized three hours of my life.
Cadeon has opinions about everything. Strong opinions. Loudly held opinions, expressed in that formal, measured way of his that somehow makes them even more emphatic.
"The roast must be beef, not pork. Pork is traditional for Harvest Festival. Midwinter requires beef."
"Does it require it, or do you just prefer it?"
"The traditions are clear."
"The traditions are also two hundred years old and possibly made up by someone who really liked beef."
He fixes me with a look that suggests I am testing his patience. "The traditions exist for reasons. Beef representsabundance through the lean months. Pork represents autumn harvest. They are not interchangeable."
"Fine. Beef." I make a note on the list he's given me, my list, covered in my chaotic handwriting that makes his eye twitch every time he looks at it. "What else requires your approval, My Knight?"
"The table settings."
"The table settings?"
"Linens first. Then silver. Then crystal. Then plates. The order matters."
"I'm fairly sure the order does not matter as long as everything ends up on the table."
"It matters," he says firmly, "to anyone who was raised with proper etiquette. And at least four of your guests were nobility before their bonds. They will notice if you set the crystal before the silver."
"Will they complain?"
"They will notice. Which is worse."
I consider arguing, but he's already moved on to the next item, explaining the precise arrangement of candles required to achieve "appropriate ambiance without creating fire hazards or interfering with sightlines for conversation."
The man has clearly spent two centuries paying attention to things no one asked him to pay attention to. It's oddly endearing.
Also, he keeps touching me.
Not dramatically. Nothing like last night's desperate kisses and wandering hands. Just... casually. A hand on my shoulder when he leans past me to point at something on a list. Fingers brushing mine when he hands me a new piece of papert. His knee pressing against my thigh when he pulls his chair closer to show me the seating chart.
Every touch sends a little spark through me. Every touch says I'm allowed to do this now. I choose to do this.
"You're not paying attention," he observes.
"I'm absolutely paying attention."
"You're looking at my hands."
"Your hands are very expressive when you're explaining place settings."
He pauses, and I watch the faint flush creep up his neck. "That is not a compliment I have received before."
"Clearly you've been talking to the wrong people."
"I have been talking to war councils and battle commanders. They rarely comment on my hands."
"Their loss."
