“We made dinner,” he said, hazel eyes finding mine. “If you’ll join us?”
Vesper walked forward, pausing to peer up at him. “Wait, when you saywe…”
Mav rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, Thistle didn’t leave me unsupervised.”
The feline, seemingly satisfied by the clarification, strode past.
Thistle’s kitchen sloped left, as though weary of standing upright. The table at its center bore one short leg compensated by several books. Copper pans dangled from a ceiling rack, chiming with each draft from the open windows. Bundles of drying herbs hung as nature’s chandeliers. The scent—herb and blossom mingled with earthy, rich notes was intoxicating.
“Sit,” Thistle commanded, brandishing a wooden spoon. “Don’t make me enchant the chairs to chase you.”
Mav lifted his hands in surrender and dropped into one of the mismatched seats. I took the place beside him. Thistle hummed to herself as she ladled a thick stew into bowls—no two alike. Vesper leaped onto a plush chair with the entitled grace of one never denied; he curled his tail and watched with imperious eyes.
“There’d better be cream,” he said.
“There’s stew,” Thistle replied without turning.
He made an offended sound somewhere between a hiss and a grumble.
A dish of roasted squash followed the stew. Then came a basket of bread, its linen cover charmed to keep it warm. The final flourish was a pitcher of glowing cordial tinged with the silver-pink sheen of moonfruit.
My eyes swept over the spread. “Thistle, this is beautiful, but I fear you have put yourself to too much trouble.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Thistle said, pouring cordial into a collection of goblets. “Which means we survived Monday. That deserves celebration.”
I smiled at her logic. The fare was humble, yet every bite carried the manner of magic only homemade meals werecapable of—nourishment layered with intention and seasoned with care.
“I have been meaning to ask,” I began between sips of the moonfruit cordial. “How did the two of you meet?”
Thistle paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. Her dark eyes flitted to Mav.
He shifted in his seat. “She’s patched me up more times than I can count.”
“Which is to say,” Thistle added, “he has a gift for being stabbed in inconvenient places and finding himself at the wrong end of a fist.”
Mav gave her a look. “You say that like it’s always my fault.”
“You tried to duel a man with three blades and no sense.”
“A tactical miscalculation.”
Thistle snorted softly. “We met when we were both stationed near the Cliffs of Balforte, during one of the quieter wars.”
“I don’t think it was ever officially declared a war. If anything, it was a petty border dispute for control of the Lithen Strait.” He shook his head, tongue pressed to his front teeth. “Two years of bickering to end up withexactlythe same treaty we started with.”
Thistle patted his arm. “Regardless, he was younger then, still pretending to be invincible. I was mending soldiers with Hedgework alongside a cadre of Hands.”
I nodded, sensing the shift in the air. The laughter thinned, leaving something gentler in its wake. “I am glad you were there.”
Thistle regarded me for a long, considering moment. She dipped her chin once before resuming her meal. Mav’s shoulders had relaxed. His smile was less guarded. There was a lightness to him here that I had not seen before.
“So,” Thistle said, a grin curling, “are you two bound magicallyandromantically? Or is that still being negotiated?”
Mav choked on a crust of bread.
I sipped my cordial without blinking.
“Too soon for that joke?” Thistle asked.
