Adele tore off a piece of honeycake and handed it to him. “Just a bit, love. You know what happened last time when you had too many.”
Fletcher made a sound that might have been disagreement, and Adele laughed.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“That it was only one incident and I’m being overly cautious.” She gave the hound a stern look. “You were sick for two days, and I felt terrible about it.”
Another whine, softer this time.
“Yes, I know you enjoyed them. That’s precisely the problem.” She turned to me. “He has no self-control when it comes to sweets. Last month I made honeycakes for a festival and left them to cool on the counter. I returned to find he’d eaten seven.”
I watched this exchange with growing fascination.
“Seven seems excessive,” I said.
Fletcher’s droopy eyes swiveled to me, and I could’ve sworn I saw indignation in them.
“He says they were small cakes,” Adele said, then added to Fletcher, “They were normal-sized cakes, and you know it.”
The hound huffed and flopped to the floor, laying his head on his paws, the picture of wounded dignity.
I smiled. “He’s quite the character.”
“He is.” Adele’s voice softened with affection as she leaned over to stroke his ears. “He’s been with me since I was ten. We bonded not long after…” She sighed. “After my parents died.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Mine died when I was twenty-three. Ten years ago.”
Her hands stilled. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been horrible.”
“Devastating. They were traveling to negotiate a peace treaty with the northern dragon clans, but they went down in a storm.”
I didn’t know why I was telling her this. I never spoke about my parents’ deaths, not even to my closest advisors. But something about the way she’d shared her own loss made the words spill out.
“My parents died in a magical accident. They were experimenting. The spell worked, but the magical backlash killed them.” She shook her head. “Grandmother says they died doing what they loved. But I still wish they’d been more careful.”
“So do I,” I said. “About mine too. The storm was predicted. They could’ve waited for better weather. But my father was impatient to secure the treaty, convinced that delay would weaken our negotiating position.”
“And was he right?”
I considered the question. “Probably. The treaty he died trying to negotiate took me three years to conclude.”
She knew. She understood what it was to lose parents too soon, to carry the weight of their unfinished work, to wonder if things might’ve been different.
Fletcher shifted, making a low sound that drew Adele’s attention.
“I know,” she murmured to him, then glanced at me. “Fletcher says we’re both being too somber for breakfast. He suggests we eat before the food gets cold.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s pragmatic of him.”
“He has his moments.” She took a bite of bread, closing her eyes as she savored it. “Oh, this is wonderful. Your kitchen is remarkable.”
I watched her eat with the same enthusiasm she brought to everything else. No delicate nibbling or restraint. She simply enjoyed the food, making small sounds of appreciation that shouldn’t have affected me but absolutely did.
“So,” she said after swallowing. “Tell me about these records. Are they organized chronologically or by phenomenon? And what level of weather detail do they contain? Temperature readings, precipitation amounts, wind patterns?”
Relief flooded through me at the return to safer topics. I could discuss historical records without thinking about how her lips looked when she licked a drop of honey from her thumb.
“Chronologically, primarily. Each year has its own volume with daily entries. The detail varies depending on who kept the records. Some of my ancestors were more thorough than others.”
