“All of the above.”
Nio presented her with a plethora of options he had on hand. He was always trying new concoctions that never made it onto Maryn’s preferred menu. As Rahzlyn scarfed down her food, I pondered our conversation on the terrace the other night.
I never allowed myself to admit what Hector had become to me when I had the chance. That pain was easier to suppress along with the rest of my past, rather than facing it. Hector’s books had been my last remaining tether to his existence. A symbol of our shared love of history.
For the first time, Iwantedsomeone to know those things about me.
“Nio, everything you make is delectable,” Rahzlyn gushed. “My grandmother would have either loved you or envied you.”
I was content to watch her eat atop the flour-dusted table, her bare feet swaying with delight. Her tanned, glyphed legs peeked from beneath her skirt, and the sudden memory of them gleaming in the bath had my skin tightening.
What was she doing to me?
Between mouthfuls, Rahzlyn asked Nio about his work and his life before the palace. She wanted to know about his family that still lived in the city and how they spent their time together when he was offered time away. All the while, crumbs stuck to her lips, and I tempered the ridiculous urge to swipe them away with my thumbs.
“I hope these have been to your liking,” Nio said. “I’ve had to get quite creative with the limited ingredients we have on hand these days.”
“What are Scorpio’s specialty foods, given the drought?”
“Don’t get him started,” I muttered in warning.
Nio’s eyes lit up. “Figs, pomegranates, and dates are our most drought-tolerant fruits. Foundational grains and legumes such as lentils, farro, and bulgur are still plentiful, enabling more diverse meal options. Our saffron farming is in high demand, as are olives. Almonds used to be, though they are too water intensive. We still rely on imports from Leo and Sagittarius for most spices and vegetables. Years ago, our crustaceans and shellfish numbers were the highest in all of Gaianos. Now they’re harvested sparingly, as you can tell from my menu.” Nio clapped his hands together. “But I always ensure we’re stocked on sweets. What do you think of that honey-soaked phyllo?”
Rahzlyn bit into the powdered pastry and moaned in response. My body heated from the guttural sound. It was such an abrupt reaction that I shot to my feet from the wooden bench, unsure what to do. Both of them peered at me oddly. I tried to imagine anything other than her making such a sound again, but it was far too pleasurable to rid from my memory.
Thankfully, my behavior was quickly ignored.
“Your cooking is extraordinary, Nio.”
“Not all who are extraordinary hail from an Academy, and not all who hail from an Academy are extraordinary.” He winked at Rahzlyn. “I have faith in the Astrals and therefore have faith in you. Do not let the palace rumors deter you. You will findhudroin no time.”
Rahzlyn’s chewing slowed. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thank you, Nio.”
Nio bowed his head. Rahzlyn, standing nearly a foot taller, slid from the table and embraced him. This earned a surprised raise of his bushy brows over her shoulder at me. “Maybe ifyoustarted hugging me, I’d cook your favorite meal more often and not only after you win me coins.”
“Not a chance, Nio,” I said dryly.
On our venture back up to her chamber, Rahzlyn peered at me curiously. “What is your favorite dish?”
“Nio makes a mean roasted lobster.”
“And dessert?”
“I’m not into sweets.”
“Blasphemy. Quick!” She jabbed her fist into my side. “At sword-point, name one treat. Just one.”
“You’re impossible.”
She pressed harder. “And deadly.”
“Alright.” I couldn’t help but indulge her theatrics. “Olive oil cake. Though I haven’t had it in a long time. Olive trees are fairly drought tolerant, so they have become our largest exported good.”
Satisfied with my answer, she feigned the action of sheathing a sword. I chuckled.
“What does food taste like for you, as a guardian? Describe olive oil cake to me.”
Guardians were often questioned about what the world was like, but never about such mundane things ascake. “It’s hard to explain,” I settled on. “Food is like a journey. I get this sense of where it came from, what it’s been through. Olive oil cake is like the feeling of the afternoon sun on your skin. I can taste the grove it came from, the wind in the leaves, even a hint of the soil. The simplest ingredients feel… alive.”
