While Neirin put away the rest of his purchases from the market, I prepped the apples. The peels and cores I set aside for the chickens, as he instructed me to do. The cubes of flesh I collected in a ceramic bowl. When I finished, I brought the knife and wooden cutting board to the washing tub on the counter.
“I’ll wash those later,” Neirin said, coming in from the back door with eggs nestled in the crook of his arm.
Various bowls and ingredients lay arranged on the table, and a fire crackled in the hearth, warming the room.
“Where did you learn how to bake?” I asked.
He set the eggs carefully in the dip of a folded cloth so they wouldn’t roll off the counter. “The woman who raised me, Nyana, taught me. She’s the castle cook.”
“You were raised in a kitchen?”
Cocking his head to the side, he studied me. “That surprises you?”
I shook my head. It wouldn’t have been my assumption.“Would you tell me more about your childhood?”
A glint of light caught his eyes. “What would you like to know?”
Considering, I leaned against the table and propped my chin on my hands. “Did you ever get into mischief as a boy?” It was a little question, but there had been enough heavy conversations in the past days.
“When I was very young,” he said, turning his back to me to check several drawers before withdrawing a set of measuring cups. “There is a small orchard in the Queen’s gardens.” He measured out flour into the bowl on the table before me. “My brother and I would climb the trees and sit in them for hours, eating whatever was in season until we got belly aches.” A faint laugh of remembrance tugged a smile at his lips.
“It is hard to imagine a prince climbing trees.” I handed him a small container of cinnamon he’d gestured to. “Isn’t your brother much younger than you, though?”
A darkness shadowed Neirin’s eyes. “Not Harlan,” he corrected, halting his movements. “Nyana’s son, Thatcher. We were within a few weeks of each other in age.”
Were.
“Neirin, I’m sorry.” I sucked in my lips. “I didn’t intend to bring up something painful.”
For a moment, an uncomfortable air of unspoken words hung between us, and I teetered between encouraging him to open up about the brother he had lost and letting the conversation go, in pursuit of returning lightness to our morning.
“No,” he said finally. “It was a good memory. Whenever I think of Thatch, my memories go to—” He sighed. “It isimportant to remember the moments of contentment we shared, too.”
Still unsure how to respond, I skirted the table to stand beside him and rested my head on his shoulder, offering comfort.
He kissed the crown of my head. “Like baking.” He was smiling again, though it did not reach his eyes. “Apple muffins were always my preference, Thatch liked the blueberry ones.”
Picking up the canister of cinnamon to busy my hands, I replaced its lid. “I would have to side with you. Cinnamon makes me think of fall and warm hearths and huddling up with a favorite book and a mug of spiced tea.”
“That’s a comforting image.” He handed me a whisk. “Though I can think of more enticing activities than reading to busy ourselves in the cold season.”
Heat flushed my cheeks, and I nudged at his side with my elbow to conceal my fluster.
He laughed and slid a bowl in front of me. “Too forward?” A hint of mischief shone in his eyes.
“No.” I worked at my bottom lip, narrowing my eyes, then rose to my tiptoes and spoke against his lips. “Not too forward.”
Neirin inhaled sharply, and a shudder coursed through his body.
Humming, I lowered back to the balls of my feet and refocused on my task, knowing full, and well the way my teasing stirred him.
An arm at my waist pulled me hard against his chest, and I squealed, whisk in hand, tossing a cloud of flour between us just as he pressed a kiss to my lips. Hard, firm. I melted against him.
When I drew back enough to meet his eyes, he laughed and ran his thumb beneath my right eye, brushing flour away. “The things you do to me, Cordelia.”
Rolling my eyes, I shoved at his chest. “Hadrian.”
His smirk widened, and he took the whisk from me. As he set to cracking the eggs, adding the yolks to my bowl and the whites to a smaller one, I watched his movements. Though I knew he was aware of my gaze on him, he did not look up again from his task even as he cradled the smaller bowl in the crook of his arm, muscles flexing as he whisked.
