“Smells so good,” I swoon.
“We don’t want it to burn. As long as we keep adding wetness, we keep that from happening. So now we?—”
“I’m sure you know all about wetness,” I blurt out.
My own jaw drops. A second of deafening silence. I’m such a fucking fool. The man’s cooking has affected me for the worse. What a stupid, impulsive thing to say.
He shakes his head in disbelief.
“Who’s the dirty pig now?” he says.
“Sorry,” I say, casually trying to laugh it off. “We put in the cabbage now?”
“Not yet. The cabbage, we boil. Now we put in the meat.”
I frown, cocking my head at him.
“We don’t boil the meat?”
“If we fry it first, it browns like the carrots—brings out a beautiful hearty flavor. My favorite. Here.”
He passes me the cutting board, covered in uniform cubes of meat. They seem large to me, too big for my mouth.
“Aren’t these a little big?” I whisper.
“When they get hot, liquid escapes them. They shrink. Put them in.”
“Can I?”
He smiles at me. I smile back.
“Go for it, Lady Kilda.”
I snort at his comment. Yesterday I was Vidar’s new favorite slave girl, now I am Lady Kilda. This man is as stable as coastal weather.
“You’re a funny man,” I say, sliding the meat into the pot with a knife.
The fat instantly sputters as chunks of deer land into it.
I throw him a glance. Did my comment test his patience? Funny man. The insult had made Vidar defensive. Ari doesn’t even react.
“Now spread them around evenly, quickly,” he says.
He whispers urgently, like it’s an important task. Like it matters. Like it’s not something people all over the world do daily—for survival, for pleasure. Maybe that’s what makes it so important. Everyone eats, every day. He’s right, it matters. I should learn to cook. I’ll have to anyway, being a thrall.
“Like this?” I ask, biting my tongue as I spread them around the bottom of the pot, trying to avoid the furiously bubbling fat.
“Just like that,” he whispers as he looks at me. His eyes are soft—he is enjoying himself. Like I am, if I am being honest.
A minute passes in silence as we both stare into the pot, or the fire beneath it, or both. I don’t know. All I know is that I am relaxing. We are at peace.
“Now flip them,” he orders me.
“Flip them,” I repeat, moving the meat so it fries on another side. The chunks have indeed become brown, and the scent of frying flesh fills my nostrils. A wave of pleasure washes from the nape of my neck and down my back.
“I’m hungry,” I whisper.
“Me too.”
