"Is it?"
"I am declaring it so." He traces a finger along my jaw, tilting my face toward his. "As the organizer of this operation, I have certain privileges."
"Such as?"
"Such as kissing you whenever I wish."
"That seems like an abuse of power."
"Undoubtedly." He kisses me, so soft and slow and thorough, nothing like the desperate urgency of last night. This is something else. Leisurely. Confident. The kiss of someone who knows he's allowed and plans to take his time.
When we break apart, I'm breathless and he looks extremely pleased with himself.
"The break is over," he announces. "We still need to inventory the china."
"You can't just kiss me like that and then talk about china."
"I can. I just did." But his hands don't leave my waist, and his eyes are warm in a way that makes my heart stutter. "The china is important. You are also important. Both things can be true."
"Flatterer."
"I am merely stating facts."
I kiss him again, quick and light, then climb off his lap with great reluctance. "Fine. Show me this china that's so critical to our success."
He stands, offering me his arm with exaggerated formality. "This way, Mistress Ashwood."
"I thought we agreed you'd call me Iris."
"We did. But 'Mistress Ashwood' is appropriate for formal occasions."
"And china inventory is a formal occasion?"
"All aspects of feast preparation are formal occasions." He leads me toward the dining room, which I've barely entered since arriving. "I will make exceptions for private moments."
"Private moments."
"When we are alone. When you are in my arms. When you make that sound you made last night when I?—"
"Cadeon," I warn, because I’m five seconds from jumping him.
"That sound, yes. Very similar."
My face is burning. His expression is perfectly innocent.
"You're impossible," I tell him.
"I am motivated," he corrects. "There is a difference."
The china, as it turns out, is extensive.
We spend two hours cataloging plates, bowls, serving dishes, and something Cadeon calls a "tureen" that looks like a fancy soup pot.
He handles each piece with reverent care, checking for chips and cracks while explaining the history of the pattern (commissioned by my great-grandmother, fired in a kiln that no longer exists, irreplaceable). His knowledge is encyclopedic. His attention to detail is slightly terrifying.
"You remember all of this," I say, watching him turn a dessert plate in the light. "Every piece, every occasion it was used, every guest who ate off it."
"Memory is reliable when one has nothing else to occupy the centuries." He sets the plate carefully in its stack. "I remember everything, Iris. Every feast, every conversation, every order Iwas given. The mind does not let go easily when the body cannot age or change."
