His stomach rumbles again. Good heavens. She’s not doing a very good job of feeding him.
“Open wide.” She lifts the bowl to his lips, and his brows knit, but he complies as she funnels walnuts into his mouth.
Amusement fills his eyes while he chews and swallows. That’s better than the look he was sending her a few minutes ago.
He quickly downs the walnuts, and she turns toward the plate holding some sort of bread or cake that was previously on fire.
“What do you call this?” she asks.
“The closest translation is flaming sweet bread,” he says in Nunian, and she smiles at him. He must feel better with some food in his belly.
“Sounds wonderful.”
As she looks at the tray, she frowns. There’s only one plate. Are they supposed to share?
“It’s similar to your cake,” he says quietly.
Cake...with fire. It’s fitting for Cerian’s birthday.
“In Nunia, we light candles on birthdays,” she says.
He frowns. “You light candles? That seems more appropriate for mourning than celebrating. Do you mourn your increasing age?”
Arisanna slides her eyes closed and tries not to laugh. She clearly did a poor job explaining birthday candles.
At least he’s talking again.
“Not that sort of candle. Small ones. Enough for each year of the birthday person’s life. We put them on a cake and let the birthday person blow them out.”
“Grandmera would need a large cake to hold enough candles.”
Arisanna looks up at him, and a faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Was that a joke? Her smile grows at his words. “How old is she?”
“Just past two hundred.”
Images of Grandmera sitting behind a cake with two hundred candles on it flit across Arisanna’s mind, and she chuckles at the absurdity of the idea.
“In Lostariel, we skip the candles and just light the cake on fire,” he says dryly.
When she looks at him again, he’s smiling, and before she can stop herself, she bursts into laughter.
“It’s more efficient that way,” he adds.
“Stop.” She buries her forehead against his arm. “Now I’m picturing her trying to blow out a giant flaming cake as everyone sings to her.”
Cerian’s shoulders shake at Arisanna’s words, and that enchanting laugh flows from his throat. “You light a cake on fire and hope someone puts out the flame by blowing on it while you sing at them?”
“Candles! We light candles! Not cakes. And no one in Nunia has two hundred candles!” It still sounds ridiculous the way he put it, and she groans as she leans against him. “It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds.”
“Please don’t sing at me. I might run.”
“I’ve trapped you in the corner. You’re stuck now. It’s all part of my plan to torture you on your birthday.”
That elicits more laughter from him. It’s a sound she could get lost in.
Who would have guessed this broody elf of hers has a sense of humor?
“I’m content with your torture as long as you don’t start singing.”
