"Let me see," he repeats, more firmly this time.
I extend my palm reluctantly. His hands are large, but unexpectedly gentle as he examines the burn in the dim bathroom light.
"Wait here," he says, disappearing briefly before returning with a small jar. "This will help."
"What is it?" I ask as he unscrews the lid.
"Comfrey salve. With maple and beeswax." A hint of his earlier dry humor returns. "One of my side projects."
He takes my hand again, applying the salve with precision. It's cool against the hot skin, the scent subtle and medicinal. The pain begins to ease almost immediately.
"Thank you," I say, watching his face as he works. In the dim light, his features seem softer, less guarded than earlier. "I'm sorry about the smoke. And for waking you."
"You didn't wake me." He finishes with the salve, but doesn't immediately release my hand. "I was checking the fire. The temperature's dropping faster than forecast."
We stand there for a moment, my hand still resting in his, neither of us quite ready to break the contact. Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he steps back.
"That room gets the worst of the draft," he says. "You should come back to the living room. It's warmer by the fire."
It's not a suggestion. He's already turning, expecting me to follow, which I do after grabbing the quilt from the bed. The living room is indeed warmer, the fire built up higher than when I left. The contrast makes me realize just how cold I'd been.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the couch nearest the hearth. "I'll make tea."
I settle into the corner of the couch, pulling the quilt around my shoulders. From this vantage point, I can watch him move around the kitchen area. He's changed into flannel pants and a worn shirt, feet bare on the wooden floor.
"Your hand will be fine," he says as he waits for the kettle to boil. "First degree, barely second in one spot. Keep the salve on overnight."
"Are you a doctor as well as a chef and syrup maker?" I ask, the hint of teasing in my voice surprising me.
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. "You spend enough time in kitchens, you learn to treat burns."
"True." I flex my fingers, testing the pain. Already it's dulled to a manageable throb. "This stuff works well. You should sell it alongside your syrup."
"Maybe." He pours hot water into two mugs. "I make it mostly for myself. Hadn't considered a market for it."
"There's always a market for things made with care," I say, echoing his earlier observation about cooking.
He brings the mugs over, handing one to me before settling at the opposite end of the couch. The tea is fragrant, lightly sweetened with what I recognize as his maple syrup.
"Thank you," I say, holding the mug between both hands, absorbing its warmth. "For this. And for not lecturing me about trying to light a capped fireplace."
"Would a lecture have helped?" he asks dryly.
"Probably not." I smile into my tea. "I've never been good at taking direction. Ask my father."
As soon as I say it, I regret mentioning my father. Silas's expression doesn't change, but I sense the slight tensing of his shoulders, the way his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around his mug.
"Sorry," I say quickly. "I know you don't want to talk about him."
He's quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. "It's not that," he says finally. "It's complicated."
"Most important things are." I take a sip of tea, giving him space.
"You have his stubborn streak," Silas says suddenly. "And his hands."
I glance down at my long fingers, square palms. Chef's hands, my father always said. "People usually say I look like my mother."
"You do. But your mannerisms, the way you move in a kitchen—that's all David."
