Aevrin barked a laugh as he dried his hands. He liked Cassia’s humor.
“Saints, I hope not.”
She grinned. “Me too. Howhungry are you?”
“Pretty damn hungry.” For a moment he met her eyes. Neither of them looked away. Aevrin wet his lips, drawing in a deep breath. Cassia bit her lower lip and his eyes instantly sank down to watch.
“What are you two up to, laughing so loud this early in the morning?” Gramma Prisca said from the doorway, snapping him back to reality. “Aevrin, get me a cup of grallo.” She lowered herself into one of the kitchen seats while he hurried to comply, sweetening his Gramma’s drink with nectar. The back of his neck felt flushed.
“Gramma Prisca, how do you like your eggs?” Cassia wanted to know. “Scrambled or omelet?”
“Saint of miracles. Did you hear that?” Gramma Prisca asked Aevrin. “Over-hard and not from a cockatrice, Cassia, if you really want to know, but I’ll take an omelet. Why does this boy have you doing all his chores?”
“I like cooking,” Cassia said simply. “And I’m good at it.”
“She’s something, huh?” Aevrin told his Gramma, setting a cup of steaming tea in front of her, the lotho dunked straight in the way she liked it. “I swear I didn’t ask her to. I got down here and she was already cooking up a storm.”
It was starting to get gray and pearly out the window, the day coming to life. He made it through a handful of cutlery before Cassia was there, nodding him to the table. She handed him the glass bottle of syrup (notably less sticky) and a plate with perfectly-arranged fritters, bacon, and fluffy eggs. A sprig of greens arced gracefully around the edge of the plate. An apple somehow miraculously cut and stacked into the shape of a dragon sat in the center. Aevrin’s eyes widened.
It smelled heavenly, and it looked like nothing he’d ever seen in the Riveker house. Or anywhere else, for that matter. He pickedhis jaw off the floor.
“Thank you, Cassia,” Aevrin said, tearing his eyes away from the food to look up into her warm eyes. For a second he got trapped there again, drinking in the sight of her and unable to look away. Cassia broke off first.
He really needed to control himself better around her. The last thing he wanted to do was make the house uncomfortable for her. But she was so beautiful, all he wanted to do was stare.
“Yours’ll be right up,” she promised Gramma Prisca, who had her fingers wrapped tight around the hot mug of grallo.
“You take your time. This is a treat. You really up for all this already?”
“I don’t like to sit still too long,” Cassia said, laying more bacon down into the pan. “Besides, I do feel a little better.”
“That’s good.” Gramma Prisca eyed Aevrin’s plate, where he used the side of his fork to cut into the steaming fritters with great anticipation. “Give me about a third what you gave this boy, okay?”
He barely believed the first bite. It was sweet, and light, the texture perfect, the cook on the fritters even and blessedly unburnt. About to tell Cassia how good it tasted he found himself shoveling a second bite into his mouth, then a third. The eggs were… there weren’t words. He didn’t know scrambled eggs could be light and creamy like that. He thought they were supposed to taste like salty rubber. Aevrin bent over the plate and shoveled another forkful in his mouth, then leaned back and shook his head, eyes shut in bliss.
“Any good?” Cassia asked, looking at him over her shoulder from the stove. Aevrin blinked his eyes open and stared at her for a good long moment.
“Miss Cassia, you cook like a seraph,” he told her straight-faced.
She laughed. She had a beautiful laugh. Whowasthis woman? Where had shecomefrom? Cassia turned back to the stove. Gramma Prisca was watching him with a smile he didn’t quite understand.
Mavek appeared in the doorway, dressed in bare feet, trousers, and a thin sleeveless tunic. His brother’s muscular arms were folded across his chest as he shivered.
“Wait, Cassia’s cooking?” Mavek asked in surprise. “Damn, it’s cold in this house.”
“You got sleeves, put them on,” Gramma Prisca informed him.
Ignoring this sage advice, Mavek sidled over and reached for one of the slices of bacon on Aevrin’s plate. Aevrin smacked the back of Mavek’s hand with the flat of his syrup-covered knife, glared into Mavek’s tired blue eyes, and shook his head firmly no.
“Ouch,” Mavek whined. “Gramma, you saw that.”
“You’re on your own,” Gramma told him. “You know better than to get between a man and his food.”
Muttering, Mavek licked the syrup off the back of his hand and went to get a mug of grallo.
“Mavek? How would you like your eggs?” Cassia asked as she plated up Gramma Prisca’s food. “It’s already whisked up, so all I can do is scrambled or omelet. Or baked or steamed, I suppose, but with cockatrice eggs…”
Mavek spun away from the teapot, empty mug in hand, and gaped at her. Cassia stared back, spatula in hand, awaiting an answer.
