Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Jack
I’m halfway through my toast when I notice Dyfri has barely touched his breakfast. Again.
He’s sitting across from me at our small dining table, looking immaculate as always in a charcoal jumper that looks as if it has been flown over from Paris Fashion Week.
His hair is swept back in an intricate arrangement that must have taken at least twenty minutes to achieve, the wedding plait woven through it like a silver thread, and every other braid adorned with one of the ribbons I gave him.
He’s holding his fork with perfect posture, occasionally taking delicate bites of scrambled eggs, but his plate is still mostly full.
Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I saw him finish a meal.
“Not hungry?” I ask, gesturing to his barely touched breakfast.
Dyfri glances up, startled, as if he didn’t realise I’d been watching. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.” I set down my coffee cup and study his face. “You’ve been picking at your food for days. Are you feeling alright?”
For a moment, I think he’s going to deflect with one of his usual sardonic comments. Instead, he sighs and sets down his fork.
“The food here is...” He pauses, clearly searching for diplomatic phrasing. “Not to my taste.”
“Not to your taste how? Too bland? Too spicy? Too British?”
A ghost of a smile crosses his features. “All of the above, perhaps. Fey cuisine is quite different from human food. The flavours, the preparation methods, even the basic ingredients we use.”
Horror washes over me. “Christ, Dyfri. How long have you been essentially starving yourself?”
“I’m hardly starving,” he protests, though the careful way he says it suggests he’s not entirely comfortable either.
“You’re not eating properly.” I stand abruptly, suddenly feeling like the world’s worst husband. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“Because it seemed ungracious to complain about hospitality.”
The formal way he says it makes my chest tight. Always so careful, so polite, even when he’s suffering in silence. How many other things has he been enduring without complaint? How many small discomforts and disappointments has he simply accepted as part of his exile from everything familiar?
“Right,” I announce, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair. “We’re going shopping.”
Dyfri blinks. “Shopping?”
“For food. Real food. Food you’ll actually want to eat.” I’m already moving toward the door. “Come on.”
“Jack, you don’t need to…”
“Yes, I do.” I turn to face him fully. “You’re my husband. Making sure you’re properly fed is literally the least I can do.”
The expression that crosses his face is almost heartbreaking. Surprise, wonder, as if the concept of someone caring about his basic needs is revolutionary. Which, given what I’m learning about his treatment at the fey court, it probably is.
The Waitrose in Belgravia is busy for a weekday morning, though I suppose it is New Year’s Eve, a fact that seems surreal given how much it is barely registering in my life. I’m far too busy to acknowledge it, let alone celebrate it.
But most people aren’t as caught up in high stakes as I am, and the shop is filled with the sort of well-dressed shoppers who treat grocery shopping as a social event.
Dyfri is attracting more than his fair share of curious glances, though whether it’s because of his ethereal beauty even in his human form or the way he’s examining a display of apples like they’re alien artifacts, I can’t tell.
I grab a trolley and try to look like I know what I’m doing, though I usually just buy whatever’s convenient and cheap. Today feels different. Today I’m shopping for someone whose approval actually matters to me.
“These are quite small,” he observes, holding up a Granny Smith.
“That’s... normal sized for apples,” I tell him. “How big are fey apples?”
“Larger. And they taste of morning frost.”
Of course they do. “Right. Well, these taste of... apple. Which is pleasant enough, once you get used to it.”
Dyfri sets the apple back with careful precision. “I’m sure they’re perfectly adequate for human palates.”
The diplomatic way he says it makes me want to laugh and cry simultaneously. Even when discussing fruit, he’s being careful not to offend.
We make our way through the produce section, Dyfri providing increasingly surreal commentary on the differences between human and fey food.
Apparently, fey vegetables glow softly when they’re ripe, their bread is made from grains that only grow in moonlight, and their honey is collected from bees that feed exclusively on dream flowers.
“Do all fey foods have magical properties?” I ask, adding some particularly expensive-looking mushrooms to our trolley.
“Not magical, exactly. But they’re... more alive than human food. More connected to the natural world.” He touches a tomato gently, as if checking for something I can’t sense. “These have been severed from their life force for too long.”
I look at the perfectly normal tomatoes with new eyes. “Is that why human food doesn’t taste right to you? Because it’s not connected anymore?”
“Partly.” He moves on to examine some herbs, crushing a sprig of rosemary between his fingers and inhaling deeply. “This is better. Herbs retain more of their essence even after harvesting.”
Mental note, buy lots of herbs.
“What about meat?” I ask as we approach the butcher counter.
“Hunting is a sacred art. Preparation of the body involves rituals. The idea of anything else is…” He wrinkles his nose. “Distasteful.”
“Okay, so we’re looking at vegetarian options. What about dairy?”
“Acceptable, as long as the animals are treated well.” He pauses by the cheese display, examining a wheel of aged cheddar with scientific interest. “Though our dairy products tend to be more... effervescent.”
“Effervescent?”
“They sparkle. Sometimes they sing.”
I stare at him. “Your cheese sings?”
“Only the really good cheese. Though I don’t think humans can hear it.”
This is going to be more challenging than I thought.
I watch him navigate the aisles with growing fascination.
He moves through the shop like he’s conducting an anthropological study, examining packaging with intense curiosity, reading ingredient labels with the sort of focus usually reserved for state documents.
When he picks up a jar of jam and turns it over in his hands like it’s a fascinating artifact, I have to resist the urge to kiss him right there in the preserves aisle.
“The variety is remarkable,” he murmurs, studying a display of different honey varieties. “In the fey realm, we have perhaps three types of honey. Here you have...” He counts under his breath. “Seventeen different options just in this one shop.”
“Choice paralysis is a real problem for humans,” I tell him. “Sometimes, having too many options makes it harder to decide.”
“And yet you seem to be selecting items with confidence.”
I glance at our trolley, which has somehow filled up with an eclectic mix of expensive ingredients and comfort foods. “I’m just buying things that look like they might bridge the gap between fey and human cuisine. Lots of herbs, fancy oils, anything that sounds remotely magical.”
Dyfri’s smile is small but genuine. “That’s actually quite strategic.”
An hour later, we return to our flat with bags full of the most exotic ingredients Waitrose had to offer.
Truffle oil, saffron, elderflower cordial, artisanal honey, organic vegetables.
If I can’t make fey-style food, at least I can make human food that’s interesting enough to hold Dyfri’s attention.
“Right,” I announce, rolling up my sleeves. “Lunch. Something properly delicious.”
Dyfri hovers uncertainly by the kitchen island. “Are you sure you don’t want me to assist?”
“I want you to supervise. Tell me if I’m doing anything that would horrify a fey palate.”
He settles onto one of the bar stools, watching me with the sort of attention he usually reserves for political briefings. It’s both flattering and slightly intimidating to have that laser focus directed at my cooking skills.
What follows is possibly the most collaborative cooking experience of my life.
Dyfri provides a running commentary on fey culinary techniques while I attempt to adapt them to human ingredients and equipment.
Apparently, fey cooking involves a lot more singing to the vegetables and considerably less actual heat.
“We don’t cook things until they’re dead,” Dyfri explains as I sauté mushrooms. “We warm them gently until they’re willing to change.”
“Right. So more of a... negotiation with the food than actual cooking.”
“Precisely.” He watches me add herbs to the pan with the sort of intense focus he usually reserves for political negotiations. “Though you do have excellent knife technique.”
“Thanks. I picked it up at university. Cooking was cheaper than eating out.”
“You cooked for yourself?”
There’s something almost wondering in his voice, as if the concept of self-sufficiency is foreign to him. Which, given that he’s probably had servants his entire life, it probably is.
“Still do, when I get the chance. There’s something satisfying about making something with your own hands, you know?”
Dyfri nods slowly, though I suspect he doesn’t know at all. “I’ve never... that is, food has always simply appeared when needed.”
The quiet admission makes my heart clench. Another reminder of how isolated his life has been, how many simple experiences he’s never had. How royalty is just a different kind of prison.
“Well,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, “today you get to experience the ancient human art of trial and error in the kitchen.”
I add a splash of elderflower cordial to the mushrooms, hoping it might provide some of that otherworldly flavour he’s used to. The kitchen fills with a delicate floral scent that makes Dyfri’s eyes widen slightly.
“That’s... actually quite promising,” he admits.
“Really?” I can’t help the pleased note in my voice.
“The scent is reminiscent of moon-blooms. They’re a common ingredient in fey cuisine.”
I make a mental note to buy more elderflower cordial. Lots more.
By the time I plate up our improvised lunch, herb-crusted salmon with elderflower mushrooms and honey-glazed carrots that I’ve convinced to caramelise through what I can only describe as enthusiastic encouragement, I’m cautiously optimistic.
Dyfri takes his first bite with the careful precision of someone expecting disappointment. His expression remains politely neutral, but I catch the slight pause, the way he chews thoughtfully.
“Well?” I ask.
“It’s...” He searches for words. “Better. Significantly better than the usual offerings.”
It’s hardly a ringing endorsement, but coming from someone whose usual food apparently sings and sparkles, I’ll take it.
“But still not quite right,” I conclude.
“The flavours are more complex than typical human cuisine,” he says diplomatically. “The elderflower was particularly inspired.”
I watch him take another bite, noting how he’s actually swallowing this time instead of just pushing food around his plate. Progress, even if it’s not perfect.
“I could arrange for meals to be brought over from the court,” I offer. “Proper fey food that you’d actually enjoy.”
Dyfri goes very still, his fork halfway to his mouth. “You would do that?”
“Of course I would. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because it would be complicated. Logistically challenging. It would require negotiations with the fey court, security arrangements, probably diplomatic protocols I can’t even imagine.
” He sets down his fork and stares at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“You would go through all of that just to ensure I have palatable meals?”
The way he says it makes my chest tight. As if the idea of someone going to trouble on his behalf is so foreign that he can barely process it.
“Dyfri,” I say gently, “you’re my husband. Of course I’d go to trouble to make sure you’re comfortable and well-fed and happy.”
“Happy,” he repeats, as if testing the word.
“Yes, happy. That’s rather the point, isn’t it?”
He’s looking at me like I’ve just performed some sort of miracle. Like I’ve offered him the moon and stars instead of just suggesting we get better catering arrangements. The wonder in his expression, the quiet amazement, makes something warm and protective unfurl in my chest.
I like him looking at me like that. Like I’m something special, something worth marvelling at.
I like it a lot.
“You continue to surprise me, Jack Caxton,” he says softly.
“In a good way, I hope.”
“In the best possible way.”
And then he smiles at me, really smiles. Not one of his careful diplomatic expressions but something genuine and warm and just for me, and I think I could happily spend the rest of my life trying to put that look on his face.
Even if it means negotiating with the Fey Court for singing cheese.