He clears his throat and redirects firmly to the next list. "The beverages."
By midmorning, we've planned the menu, arranged the seating (with three separate backup configurations in case of last-minute conflicts), and drafted a schedule for the next week that would make a military quartermaster weep with joy.
"Today we inventory the china," Cadeon announces, consulting his master list. "Tomorrow we assess the linens. The day after, we visit the village to place orders with the butcher, the baker, and Greta for additional spices."
"Do I get any input on this schedule?"
"You may suggest modifications. I will consider them."
"How gracious."
"I am magnanimous in victory."
I laugh. I can't help it. He looks so serious, so utterly in command, and yet there's a lightness underneath it all. A playfulness I'm only beginning to see.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing. You're just..." I search for the word. "You're happy."
He freezes. Not the dangerous stillness of threat, but the startled stillness of someone who's been caught feeling something he wasn't expecting to feel.
"I am... engaged," he says carefully. "There is a task. I am performing it competently. That is satisfying."
"That's not what I said."
"No." He's quiet for a moment, looking down at his lists. "No, it isn't."
I reach across the table and take his hand. His fingers curl around mine automatically. Like he doesn’t even think about it, and I love it.
"You're allowed to be happy," I say softly. "You're allowed to enjoy things. Even things that aren't life-or-death."
"This may be life-or-death. If the napkins are folded incorrectly, Magnus may actually expire from disapproval."
"Now you're joking."
"I am stating a reasonable possibility."
"You're definitely joking." I squeeze his hand. "I like it when you joke."
He lifts my hand to his lips—a courtly gesture, almost old-fashioned, but the way his eyes hold mine makes it something else entirely. "I find myself doing many things I did not expect," he murmurs against my knuckles. "Joking amongst them."
"What else?"
"Hoping. Wanting. Imagining futures I have no right to imagine." He presses a kiss to my palm. "Falling in love with a kitchen witch who cannot fold napkins correctly."
"I can fold napkins."
"You cannot. I've seen your attempts. They look like wounded birds."
"They look artistic."
"They look like something died on the table."
I pull my hand back to swat at his shoulder, but he catches it, tugging me forward until I'm half out of my chair. One more pull and I'm in his lap, his arms around my waist, my hands braced on his shoulders.
"This is highly inappropriate behavior for a planning session," I inform him.
"The planning session is on break."
