Episode 33
They Always Miss Breakfast
Arisanna clings to Cerian’s arm as he leads her to the Windhaven kitchens, and he silences every voice in his head telling him to put space between them. The way she ran to him when he held out his hand earlier awoke something fierce inside him—a desire to protect her and keep her safe.
That same desire he felt in the heartlanding.
Her eyes are large as she takes in everything, from the tree-grown walls to the windows in the ceilings and the many curving corridors.
“If you let go of me here, I might wander for hours trying to find you again,” she murmurs.
He looks down at her and swallows as words sit on his tongue in response, but he can’t bring himself to say them.
“What?” she asks. “You can talk to me, remember?”
“I’d sound like a simpering fool if I said it.”
“I can’t imagine you as a simpering fool.”
“Neither can I.”
“You’re scowling again.”
Is he?
“Let me guess what you were going to say,” she says. “‘Oh, Arisanna, don’t be ridiculous. Just retrace your steps.’”
He frowns at her. “That was not—”
“Or maybe, ‘How empty-headed is this human clinging to my arm?’”
“What? I don’t—”
“Oh, I know. You were going to say, ‘I hope she remembers how to find food so I don’t have to feed her myself every morning.’”
Horror fills him at the thought that she imagines him saying any of those things. What sort of elf does she think he is?
She opens her mouth again, but he hurries to speak first. “I was going to say I have no intention of letting you go.”
When she glances up at him, her eyes are full of amusement.
Whistling wind. She...she tricked him.
“You don’t sound like a simpering fool,” she says softly. “That was sweet.”
“I wasn’t thinking any of that! And you knew it!”
“Well. That’s good to hear.”
“Arisanna!”
“How am I supposed to know what you’re thinking when you just stand there scowling?”
He opens his mouth and closes it again.
“Now what are you thinking?” she asks.
“You...”
“Yes?”
“You have a point. Come on.” He tugs her forward again but not before he catches the smile on her face, and it takes everything he can muster not to smile in return.
Cerian pulls Arisanna through a large doorway, and she stops short. Iron stoves and tables and shelves of food and hanging pots and pans line the room.
“Oh! We’re going inside the kitchens?”
She thought...well, she didn’t give it much thought.
“Is that a problem?” he asks.
She pastes on a smile. “Of course not. I’ve just...never been in a kitchen.”
He stares at her. “Ever?”
Great. Now he’ll think she’s a spoiled princess used to being waited on.
And wouldn’t it be true?
She tugs at her hand as her cheeks heat in embarrassment, but he doesn’t let go.
“Arisanna, it’s all right.”
Before he can say more, a short, graying elf with a food-splattered apron and a wooden spoon approaches them, shaking the utensil at Cerian’s head as Arisanna stares in shock.
“You skip breakfast and then come in here, expecting me to feed you at all hours of the day and night.”
Arisanna looks at the woman in horror. “I...no. I’m sorry—”
“Hush, youngling. It’s this one who’s been giving me trouble since the day he learned to walk.”
Arisanna’s brows knit as she looks from the woman to Cerian.
“Cook loves me,” Cerian whispers. “I remind her of my parents.”
“I heard that, Master Cerian. This isn’t love. This is me getting ready to smack you with a spoon.”
Stars above. What is happening? Is Cerian...smiling?
“You’ve never smacked me with the spoon, Cook,” he says.
“There’s a first time for everything. Now don’t hover in the doorway.” Cook shakes her head and winks at Arisanna. “The newly bound. They always miss breakfast.”
Arisanna’s face flames. She doesn’t dare meet Cerian’s gaze as he leads her to a table with a couple of stools.
“Ah, ah, ah. Let me see those hands, Master Cerian. I hear you’ve been sparring.”
With a smirk Arisanna can’t wrap her mind around, Cerian holds out his hands.
“Filthy. You wash up right now. You, too, youngling. I saw you hanging all over him.”
Arisanna just stares. What kind of place is this?
“The sink is this way,” Cerian whispers. His face looks flushed to match her own warm cheeks.
Wordlessly, she follows him to the stone sink with its wooden pipes. There are no knobs here, either. He tugs his sleeves up, exposing the smooth muscles of his forearms, and Arisanna glances away.
Stars above, he’s nice to look at. She may have swooned if he’d shown up in Feressa looking like...like this.
The sound of running water catches her ear, and she snaps her eyes back to the sink. “How did you do that?”
As he scrubs his hands on a bar of soap, he glances her way. “Do what?”
“Turn on the water. I couldn’t figure out how to run the water in your bathtub this morning.”
His hands still beneath the faucet as he stares at her. Then steam rises from his palms, and she gasps.
“Cerian! You’ll burn yourself!”
“Whistling wind.” He shakes his hands off, spraying water on both of them.
The steam isn’t coming from the water, though.
It’s coming from him.
The water stops flowing on its own, and she glances from the faucet to his hands to his face in shock. “I am so confused now.”
“As am I,” he mumbles as he flexes his hands.
“What?”
He’s not forthcoming, but that’s nothing new.
“Why don’t you wash up,” he says. “Just pull the cord. The water wielder on duty at Windhaven’s central water supply will send water.”
Oh. Well. That’s simple enough.
And fascinating. They use pumps in Nunia.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
He presses his lips together rather than answering. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.
But what in the world just happened?
“Cerian?” She reaches for his hand, but he backs away so fast he knocks over a sack of potatoes.
Why did he pull away like that? Weren’t they making progress?
“What mischief are you up to now, Master Cerian?” Cook calls out.
His eyes grow wide with that panicked look he gets right before he flees, and Arisanna shakes her head. “Don’t run. You said you wouldn’t run. Stay with me. Please.”
She doesn’t try taking his hands again. Whatever’s going on, he clearly doesn’t want her touching his hands.
Would he let her touch him at all? She steps toward him, and he doesn’t move. That’s a good sign. Another step. Closer and closer until she’s near enough to wrap her arms around him.
Still, he doesn’t move.
Then suddenly he clutches her to his chest, and she stiffens.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “My...fire magic is...acting up.”
She glances at his face. “Is that normal?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t wish to burn you.”
Ah. That explains his reluctance to hold her hand.
At least he’s not rejecting her. He’s doing anything but that with the way he clings to her, carefully avoiding touching her with his hands.
“Is this you not running?” she whispers as she relaxes against him.
“Yes.” His voice is so quiet she can barely make out the Elvish word.
“Master Cerian, there will be none of that in my kitchen!” Cook says from across the room. “You let your princess go and come make yourself useful while I fill her belly.”
Fire of her own flames Arisanna’s face, and Cerian quickly puts some space between them. She’s never seen him so red.
“Are you all right?” she whispers in Nunian.
“I...yes. Thank you...for...”
“You’re welcome.”
Clearing his throat, he gestures to the hanging cord again. “Just pull that, and water will come.”
She nods, and he hurries toward Cook, glancing back at Arisanna before sitting at the table. Cook drops a potato in front of him, along with a knife, and he starts peeling.
Cerian helps in the kitchens?
She wouldn’t even know what to do with a potato.
Quickly, she washes her hands and joins him at the table, trying not to stare.
Cook sets a plate full of sausage links and apple slices in front of Arisanna. “You eat, and then you can dice those potatoes for lunch. If you’re going to be in my kitchen, I’m going to put you to work.”
Arisanna glances at Cerian. He looks uncertainly back at her as if he’s afraid she’ll be offended.
“I might need you to show me what to do,” she whispers in Nunian, offering him a soft smile.
Relief fills his face, along with one of those breathtaking smiles he rarely shows, and he nods before returning his attention to the potato in his hand.