Byshrugging.
I am going toset him on fire.
“We had a busy afternoon,” Zan says with his habitual,lyingcalm.
“One of us did,” I mutter, crossing to his side. “Here I am. Show me how to make an omelet.”
“Of course, Yora. The first thing you need to do is crack an egg. Many ice cream recipes use eggs for the cream base, too.”
My chest tightens. Even now, he’s still trying to help me follow my dream. Help me be independent in this new world.
Of course he is also doing it in the most obnoxious way possible.
Zan demonstrates cracking an egg against the edge of a bowl. The sharp, decisive movement of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, unlike me.
He deftly pries the egg open and releases its contents into the bowl, then hands me one.
I imitate his movements. My egg’s shell crumbles, bits of shell filling the bowl.
“Close,” Zan says neutrally. “The easiest way to fish the shell pieces out is to use the bigger piece of shell still in your hand. Watch.”
I do, then I try.
I spend minutes chasing shell bits around the bowl, feeling Zan’s amusement next to me increase though he doesn’t so much as crack a smile.
He shows me again how to crack an egg.
This time, I am absolutely certain I have calibrated my power exactly correctly—
The egg still fucking shatters.
I glare at it in sheer outrage.
Zan starts shaking with laughter.
I transfer my glare at him, hiding my abject relief that he will still unbend this much around me.
Nomi’s earlier interruption belatedly makes sense. She didn’t think this was a good starter skill to learn—it must be the kind that, like a kata, improves with repetition until it eventually settles into your muscle memory.
He set me up—
“Sorry,” Zan says ruefully—but with a hint of bitterness. “It’s been so long that I forgot—”
Oh gods, hedidn’tset me up on purpose but is now going to beat himself up over it?
Nope, absolutely not, I’m so done with that from him.
And of all things he’s apologizing to me for, it’s fuckingthis?
Before he can finish speaking I snatch another egg and smash it over his stupid head.
Zan gapes at me as egg slowly glops down his hair.
“Oh, so sorry,” I say airily. “I forgot that wrath only ever breaks things! Silly me. I guess since I can’t do anything else perfectly the first time I’ll have to resign myself to the knowledge that I’m simply unable to cook omelets, or anything else—”
“You...” Zan begins, disbelievingly.
“Goodness, if only there were someone who knew about such things who lived inourhouse! But you know, I hear I have a talent for cleaning.” I grab a dish towel and lift it towards Zan’s head. “Let’s see if my talent for blanket beating extends to—”
