“Apologies,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Her shoulders relax, just a touch. “Typically, when one says good morning,” the goddess remarks, continuing to dig the heels of her palms into the sticky ball, “the proper response is to say good morning back.”
She lifts her head then, her expression strangely tentative. Curls of dark hair spill over one bare shoulder, a healthy flush warming her olive skin and powdered face. Instead of the extravagant outfits I have come to expect, she wears a plain gray dress and leather sandals.
“Sorry—”
“Ah!” She lifts a hand. “No apologies.”
I dip my chin self-consciously. Lady Clarisse would have scolded me for the interruption. “What are you making?” I ease closer. Onions—julienned—piled in a bowl. There is also grated parmesan.
“Cheese tarts,” Demi replies. “They’re Eurus’ favorite. Also, brioche. I could use some help.”
And why should it matter that Demi knows Eurus’ preference for baked goods? It shouldn’t, but the sudden twist in my gut proves otherwise. “I’ll probably mess something up,” I murmur.
She raises an eyebrow. A bit of flour dusts her nose—her entire front, actually. “You have never baked before?”
“I used to, when I was younger. My grandmother taught me.”
“Then what makes you think you would mess up?”
Shall I reveal to her the burn marks and the scars? Shall I offer up my left hand, its thumb slightly bowed from where her ladyship broke it as punishment for failing to add an ingredient to one of her beauty teas? Maybe I do not need to share the particulars of my life. Maybe Demi sees for herself what I have endured.
But she does not press. Rather, she refocuses on her kneading, saying, “Do you know that I have a daughter?” At my surprise, she tosses me a quirked grin. “Yes, I realize I may notlookit, but I have been a mother for many centuries. She’s a darling young woman, though too naive, I’m afraid.”
“Why is she naive?”
“She trusts too easily. I have tried explaining to her that to trust is to make yourself vulnerable, but she doesn’t listen to me.” Demi shakes her head. “She’s at that age. Everything I do embarrasses her. I fear there will come a day when I am not able to protect her, but what can I do?” A long, tragic sigh follows. “I suppose what I’m saying is… you are young. You will make mistakes, but you will learn.”
I glance at the goddess’ elegant hands: relaxed, lacking tension. Safe. “I don’t want to take up your time,” I venture.
“You haven’t, and you won’t. Come.” She waves me over, offering a white apron to match the one she has tied across her shin-length dress.
“If you’re hungry,” I point out, “couldn’t you ask the cook to make you something? It would avoid staining your clothes.”
“What if I prefer getting my hands dirty?” It is spoken in a way that suggests I am not the first to advise she let others work in her stead. “There’s something gratifying in doing things for oneself, don’t you think?”
I nod. She handles the dough competently, after all. “I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t capable. I guess I assumed you would prefer someone else to handle those things for you.”
A sad bitterness clouds her expression. “And why wouldn’t you?” she murmurs, more to herself than me. “I have given you no reason to believe otherwise.”
Sensing a shift in mood, I focus on tying my apron while Demi separates the dough into two halves and sets one before me on the wooden table. Although Eurus would prefer I use the opportunity to gather information on his competitors, I would rather spend time with Demi without the pressure to use her in some way.
“What did you bake with your grandmother?” she asks.
“Oh, all sorts of things. Breads, muffins, pastries. We would bake croissants on Sundays. I preferred mine with chocolate, but Nan loved raspberry jam.” I smile, recalling how we would each sample the other’s creations, our fingers sticky with sweetness, and begin to knead,a forceful motion of the arm. “Sometimes, Nan would sell her pickled vegetables in the market, along with her teas.”
“Teas?”
“Yes. My grandmother was a superb herbalist. She taught me everything I know about potions.”
The goddess slows her kneading, expression curious, more like her old self. “She taught you to make potions?”
Only then do I realize what I have uttered aloud. My stomach curdles, the apprehension sour in my throat.
Demi lifts the ball of dough, slams it down onto the table. I jump. She does it again, having fallen into quiet contemplation.
Stupid.No one must know that I am a herbalist, much less a bane weaver. Surely she would not think deeper on the matter. Herbology is not an uncommon trade. As far as she is concerned, I am just a mortal with a passion for plants.
