Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty Seven
As if summoned by Mira’s enthusiasm, the doors to the hall swung open again, and the real celebration began.
The feast unfolded in waves of decadent abundance.
Roasted winter birds glazed with starfruit honey, root vegetables that sparkled with edible gold dust, bread so warm it still steamed when broken.
Each dish came with stories, Fenn explaining how his region saved the wishbones for midnight fortune-telling, Mira describing ice wine that could only be harvested under a full moon.
“In the eastern provinces,” the quiet first-year, a girl named Dania, offered shyly, “we write our hopes for the new year on paper and burn them in the solstice fire.”
“Beautiful,” Thendrick murmured. “The smoke carries dreams to the stars.”
“Or sets the curtains on fire,” Nareen added dryly. “As we discovered three years ago.”
Laughter rippled around the table. Cassara found herself relaxing into the warmth of it, the easy camaraderie so different from formal dinners at home where every word was measured, every gesture calculated.
“Cassara,” Mira asked, passing a dish of honeyed carrots, “what are southern traditions like?”
“We…” She paused, realizing she had no idea. Her father had never celebrated anything that didn’t involve contracts or political advantage. “We keep things simple.”
“Simple can be profound,” Thendrick said, saving her from elaboration. “Sometimes the absence of ritual is its own tradition.”
Across the table, Gideon caught her eye. He’d been quieter than usual tonight, contributing to conversations but always seeming half-focused on something else. On her, she realized, with a flutter of heat. Every time she looked up, he was looking away just a moment too late.
“Oh!” a second-year named Edwin suddenly exclaimed. “They’re bringing the fortune tarts!”
A collective murmur of appreciation rose as a floating tray descended, bearing the most beautiful desserts Cassara had ever seen.
Each tart was a small work of art—delicate pastry cups cradling crystallized berries that caught the light like tiny gems. The sugar work on top formed unique patterns of frost, no two alike.
“Frost Blossom Fortune Tarts,” Fenn explained to Dania. “You can only make them on the winter solstice when the berries are perfect. The frost pattern predicts your fortune for the coming year.”
“Mine has three spirals!” Mira announced, examining hers with delight. “That means new friendships.”
“Crossing lines for me,” Edwin added. “Journey or adventure, supposedly.”
One by one, the others selected their tarts, interpreting the sugar patterns with varying degrees of seriousness. Nareen’s had what looked like a sword shape.
“How predictable,” she muttered, while Thendrick’s showed a perfect circle.
“Completion of cycles,” he mused, looking pleased.
Cassara waited, always more comfortable observing than rushing forward. Gideon seemed to have the same instinct. By the time the tray floated between them, only one tart remained.
It was perfect—berries so deep purple they were nearly black, the frost pattern elaborate and mysterious, like a constellation she couldn’t name.
They reached for it at the same time.
Their fingers collided over the delicate pastry, his warm against her cool skin. Both froze, hands touching, neither pulling back.
“Oh no!” Mira’s gasp broke the moment. “You both touched the last fortune tart!”
Cassara started to withdraw her hand, but Edwin practically shouted, “Don’t! That’s worse!”
“What?” She looked around the table, confused by the sudden intensity on everyone’s faces.
“If two people touch the last fortune tart, they have to share it,” Fenn explained, grinning. “Otherwise, you’re stealing each other’s luck for the year.”
“That’s…” Cassara began.
“Ancient tradition,” Thendrick confirmed solemnly, though she swore she saw his eyes twinkling. “To split a fortune without sharing its blessing invites calamity.”
“Calamity,” Cassara repeated flatly. “From a pastry.”
“Not just any pastry,” Edwin insisted. “The last fortune of the solstice! Do you want to risk it?”
She looked at Gideon, who had remained remarkably silent through this explanation. His expression was carefully neutral, but there was something dancing in his eyes—amusement? Anticipation?
“Fine,” she said. “We’ll share. Cut it in half and—”
“No!” This time it was a chorus. Even Nareen looked mildly alarmed.
“You can’t cut a fortune,” Mira explained patiently, like Cassara was missing something obvious. “That definitely splits the luck. You have to…” She paused, suddenly looking everywhere but at them.
“Have to what?” Cassara demanded, though she had a sinking feeling she knew where this was going.
“Share the blessing,” Fenn supplied helpfully. “With a kiss. To seal the fortune between you.”
The table went very quiet. Even the enchanted snow seemed to fall more softly.
Heat flooded Cassara’s face. “That’s the most ridiculous—”
“It’s tradition,” Mira said.
“A very serious tradition,” Edwin added, fighting a smile. “Terrible things happen to those who split a solstice fortune. There was a couple in my village who refused—separate storms followed each of them for months.”
“Storms,” Cassara said. “Really.”
“And the livestock incidents,” Fenn added gravely.
“Don’t forget the turnip blight,” Mira chimed in.
Cassara looked at Nareen for help, but the instructor just sipped her wine, apparently finding the ceiling fascinating. Thendrick was definitely hiding a smile behind his cup.
“We’re really doing this,” she muttered.
“Unless you want to risk the turnip blight,” Gideon said, speaking for the first time since they’d touched the tart. His voice was steady, but she caught the slight upturn of his mouth.
She glared at him.
He was enjoying this.
“Fine,” she said, lifting her chin. “For the sake of the turnips.”
“And the livestock,” he added solemnly.
“Can’t forget the chickens.”
They were still holding the tart between them, fingers touching. The entire table watched with poorly concealed delight as Gideon leaned forward slightly.
“Where?” he asked quietly, and she realized he was giving her the choice—cheek, forehead, hand. Letting her set the boundary.
“Cheek,” she managed, voice steadier than her pulse.
He leaned across the small space between them. She turned her face slightly, offering her left cheek, and tried not to think about how this was happening in front of everyone, how Thendrick was definitely going to say something cryptic about it later, how—
His lips brushed her cheek, soft and warm and lasting just a heartbeat longer than strictly necessary. His breath stirred the loose hair by her ear.
This doesn’t count, she told herself firmly as her skin tingled from the contact. It’s just tradition. Just superstition. Auren would understand.
Would he?
The thought crept in unbidden as Gideon pulled back. Auren, who’d kissed her with desperate hunger against ancient stone. Who’d whispered promises in the dark. Who’d left without a word of explanation.
If he’d been here, she wouldn’t be sharing fortune tarts with Gideon. If he’d stayed, if he’d trusted her enough to explain, if he’d—
No. That wasn’t fair. There had to be a reason. There was always a reason with Auren, layers of duty and honor and things he couldn’t say.
But the small, traitorous voice in her mind whispered: He still left.
“There,” Edwin announced cheerfully. “Fortune preserved! Now you can eat the tart.”
“Right,” Cassara said faintly, guilt twisting in her stomach. “The tart.”
They divided it carefully, with their hands, not a knife, as apparently that was also bad luck, and ate in silence while conversation resumed around them. The berries burst on her tongue, sweet and tart and perfect, but all she could taste was the ghost of almost-kisses and the promise of what if.
What if Auren hadn’t left? What if she wasn’t sitting here, skin still warm from another man’s kiss, however innocent? What if her heart didn’t race quite so fast when Gideon looked at her?
She had no right to feel abandoned. She and Auren had made no promises beyond “after”—after the Wildes, after the danger passed, after they could stop pretending. But “after” had come and gone, and he’d vanished like morning mist.
And now here was Gideon, solid and present and looking at her with eyes that saw too much.
When she finally risked a glance at him, he was studying his half of the frost pattern intently.
“What fortune did we get?” she asked, needing to say something normal, needing to stop the spiral of her thoughts.
He tilted the remaining sugar work toward the light. “Looks like… intertwining spirals that meet in the center.”
“What does that mean?”
“Convergence,” Thendrick said, having apparently been eavesdropping. “Two paths becoming one. Very auspicious for a shared fortune.”
Cassara nearly choked on her last berry. Two paths. Like hers and Auren’s were supposed to? Or like—
No. She wouldn’t think it. Couldn’t.
“Or it’s just melted sugar,” Nareen said dryly. “Sometimes a pastry is just a pastry.”
But when Cassara caught Gideon’s eye again, she knew they were both thinking the same thing.
Sometimes it wasn’t just a pastry at all.
Sometimes, the people who stayed mattered more than the ones who left.
I’m sorry, she thought, not sure if she was apologizing to Auren, to Gideon, or to herself. But the warmth on her cheek remained, a gentle accusation and a sweeter promise all at once.
The empty dessert plates floated away as conversation mellowed into the comfortable fullness that followed a good meal. Fenn stretched, patting his stomach with satisfaction.
“I won’t need to eat for a week,” he groaned.
“Good thing we still have a few days before everyone gets back,” Edwin laughed. “I couldn’t lift a sword right now if my life depended on it.”
“Speaking of movement,” Mira said, eyes bright with mischief, “who’s brave enough to start the dancing?”