He startles. He turns to me with wide eyes and drops the pliers he was holding.
“I thought we could have lunch together,” I say. “If you want. I brought a pie.”
He looks at the cloth bundle in my hands, then at me, and his face opens in a mixture of surprise and delight.
“That’s lovely,” he says. “Thank you for thinking about me.”
I shrug. “It’s no big deal. I just wanted to thank you for the gifts and do something for you in return.”
“You don’t have to…”
“I know,” I say. “I want to.”
I set the pie on his worktable, between a coil of silver wire and a tray of tiny, polished stones.
“Where can I find cutlery?”
He grips the arms of his chair and tries to push himself up, then drops back down with a groan.
“Are you okay?”
He waves me off.
“My leg fell asleep. The cabinet in the living room, but you shouldn’t… I’ll go, just give me a moment.”
I giggle.
“Don’t be silly.”
I walk past him and touch his arm as I go, my fingers brushing just above his wrist, then I hurry out and back into the livingroom. I stand on my toes and open the cabinet, pull out plates, forks, and napkins, and behind them I find a bottle of wine and two glasses. I fill my arms and carry it all to the workshop, balancing the glasses against my chest so they don’t slide.
Korr has cleared his worktable while I was gone, all the tools and materials pushed to one end, and the cloth is spread open with the pie in the center.
I climb onto the stool beside him, close enough that my shoulder is level with his arm, and cut the pie with a fork, sliding a piece onto each plate. I pour wine into both glasses, lift mine, and take a sip. It’s warm and a little sweet, and I roll it on my tongue and set the glass down. I don’t feel like drinking today. It’s easy to make the decision. I used to drink because I needed to, and today I just don’t.
“Do you like it?” I ask, watching him eat.
He hums around the bite and nods.
“It’s perfect.”
“I would normally cook,” I tell him. “I kind of miss it, actually. But it doesn’t seem like there’s a kitchen in our quarters.”
“Golems don’t usually cook,” he says. “There’s a large kitchen and a dining room in the Corehalls, and various pubs and taverns, and we eat there.” He pauses. “But some golems have kitchens in their quarters. My sister, Irrva, and her husband, Jarrvik, do. I was always single, so I never equipped mine.”
“Wait.” I turn on the stool to face him. “There’s a kitchen space in our quarters?”
“There’s a room that connects to the living room. It’s meant to be a kitchen, but it’s empty. If you’d like, I can get furniture and everything we need.”
“That would be nice,” I say, and then add, “but don’t worry about it.”
I don’t want him to change his ways for me. If he never had a kitchen, it means he didn’t want it, and I don’t want to make himgo out of his way when we don’t even know… when I don’t know, if this will last.
He shakes his head.
“It didn’t make sense before. I never had anyone to share cooking and meals with. It was easier to eat out. And I visit Irrva often. She always has a hot meal ready if I don’t feel like eating in the common dining hall.”
I pick at my pie. To me, it’s unheard of. Someone living without a kitchen, without the smell of something on the stove. Cooking was mine even during the worst of my marriage. I liked preparing food with my own hands, and no one could take it away from me, not even Bran when he complained the bread was too chewy and the stew was bland. Which they were not. He only liked to get on my nerves about every little thing, most of them invented.
