"You're enjoying this entirely too much."
"Yes," he agrees, and there's no irony in it now. Just warmth. Just happiness, freely admitted. "I believe I am."
By evening, we've inventoried not just the china but also the silver, the crystal, and the linens. My head is spinning with the difference between a fish fork and a dessert fork (apparently significant) and the precise angle at which napkins should be placed relative to plate edges (forty-five degrees, obviously).
But there's something satisfying about it too. Seeing the pieces come together. Understanding, finally, why the Midwinter Feast is such a major undertaking.
"We should eat," I announce, stretching my back after hours of crouching over storage chests. "I'm starving and you've been too busy organizing to remember that humans need regular sustenance."
"I have not forgotten. I simply prioritized efficiency."
"Efficiency over my wellbeing?"
"You are capable of reminding me when you require food. The china is not capable of inventorying itself."
I laugh and head for the kitchen, already planning something simple and comforting after a day of formality. Behind me, Cadeon follows, his footsteps quiet on the stone floors.
"Tomorrow," he says as I begin pulling out ingredients, "we will visit the village to place orders. I will require a list of your food magic specialties so that we may incorporate them into the menu properly."
"My 'food magic specialties'?"
"The dishes in which your magic is strongest. The ones that create particular effects." He leans against the counter, watching me work. "I have observed that your bread induces comfort. Your wassail promotes warmth and fellowship. I assume there are other dishes with other purposes."
I pause, a potato in my hand. "You've been paying attention to the effects of my cooking?"
"I pay attention to everything about you."
The simple statement shouldn't make my heart race, but it does.
"There's a soup," I say, returning to my preparations. "For healing. Physical wounds, but also... emotional ones. Grandmother taught it to my mother, and my mother taught me before she died. I haven't made it in years."
"Perhaps you should make it for the feast."
"Perhaps." I glance at him. "It's very personal. The magic requires genuine care for the people eating it. I'd have to actually want to heal everyone there."
"And do you?"
I consider the question seriously. The mages who looked down on me. The familiars who watched me with suspicion. Magnus, with his cruel words and crueler assumptions.
"I don't know," I admit. "Some of them have been awful to me."
"Healing is not the same as forgiveness," Cadeon says quietly. "One can wish for someone's wounds to mend without approving of how they received them."
"That's... surprisingly philosophical for someone who spent two centuries as a weapon."
"I spent two centuries thinking about very little else but philosophy. Violence leaves considerable time for contemplation, in between the actual moments of killing." He moves closer, taking the potato from my hand and setting it aside. "You are a healer, Iris. It is your nature. Fighting against that to spite people who have hurt you would damage you more than them."
"When did you get so wise?"
"I have always been wise. I simply lacked opportunity to demonstrate it."
I lean into him, resting my head against his chest. His arms come around me automatically. Another new habit, another choice.
"I'll make the soup, but I’ll spin it." I decide. "For the feast. Even for Magnus."
"Even for Magnus."
"He's going to hate that I'm touching him with kitchen magic."
