Episode 43
Flaming Sweet Bread
Cerian stands near his door, awkwardly holding their breakfast tray as Arisanna tries not to laugh. Did he even remember it was his birthday until Cook showed up?
“It’s just another day,” he mumbles.
“A day that starts by lighting your breakfast on fire. That sounds like more than just another day to me.”
His gaze briefly connects with hers before he turns away.
So the taciturn Cerian has returned. She bites back a sigh as he searches for somewhere to set the tray.
There’s not even a table in here. Or a desk. Cerian doesn’t strike her as the sort of person who would spend much time at a desk.
A table would be useful, though.
Unless they’re going to eat breakfast in bed. Her pulse quickens at the thought.
Images of him without his shirt flash across her mind. Did the room suddenly grow warmer?
Briefly, Cerian eyes the bed as well, and Arisanna’s throat runs dry. But he shoves the tray toward her instead, and she barely catches it in time.
At least it’s not still on fire.
Reaching out with his magic, Cerian coaxes the wall to extend into the room, forming a cozy little nook with benches and a table in the corner near his bookcase, where all his figurines live.
“Perfect,” she says, and he glances back at her.
He’s got the beginnings of a look about him—the look he gets when the bear comes out. Working his plant magic on an empty stomach must be hard on his magic reserves.
“Let’s feed you, all right?” She keeps her voice soft, and he exhales slowly before nodding.
After setting the tray on the table, Arisanna lowers herself to one of the benches, and Cerian sits across from her. A bowl of what looks like walnuts sits beside a teapot, and Arisanna reaches for it at the same time as Cerian. Their hands brush, and shivers race along her arm.
Not that she wasn’t sitting on his lap in the heartlanding. Everything feels more awkward after they wake up, though.
At least his hand isn’t scorching. His fire magic must be quieter in the real world at the moment.
They both pull back their hands, and Cerian’s jaw clenches.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I was just trying to help.”
For a moment, Cerian works his jaw as he stares at her. Then he picks up the bowl of walnuts, and, rather than shoveling them into his mouth, he sets the bowl in front of her.
Does he want her to feed him?
When she doesn’t move, a shadow crosses his face, and he reaches for the bowl, but she grabs it from him.
“This is my job.” She holds the bowl out of reach. “And I don’t want anyone to think your human princess is shirking.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but he says nothing. Then his stomach growls.
Right. She needs to feed the bear.
“Forgive me,” he mutters. “I’m—”
“Starving?” She smiles and holds out a walnut. When he opens his mouth, she drops it on his tongue, though she can barely reach him across the table. “Maybe I should sit beside you.”
The bench is small, but there should be room for both of them.
Without speaking, he scoots over, and she slips around to his side. It’s cozy on the bench with him, but he doesn’t complain.
“Here. Have another walnut.” She angles herself to offer him the nut, and her bare knee presses against his leg.
Stars above. She’s still wearing her borrowed nightgown.
Not that he hasn’t seen much more of her legs than this already.
His stomach rumbles again. Good heavens. She’s not doing a very good job of feeding him.
“Open wide.” She lifts the bowl to his lips, and his brows knit, but he complies as she funnels walnuts into his mouth.
Amusement fills his eyes while he chews and swallows. That’s better than the look he was sending her a few minutes ago.
He quickly downs the walnuts, and she turns toward the plate holding some sort of bread or cake that was previously on fire.
“What do you call this?” she asks.
“The closest translation is flaming sweet bread,” he says in Nunian, and she smiles at him. He must feel better with some food in his belly.
“Sounds wonderful.”
As she looks at the tray, she frowns. There’s only one plate. Are they supposed to share?
“It’s similar to your cake,” he says quietly.
Cake...with fire. It’s fitting for Cerian’s birthday.
“In Nunia, we light candles on birthdays,” she says.
He frowns. “You light candles? That seems more appropriate for mourning than celebrating. Do you mourn your increasing age?”
Arisanna slides her eyes closed and tries not to laugh. She clearly did a poor job explaining birthday candles.
At least he’s talking again.
“Not that sort of candle. Small ones. Enough for each year of the birthday person’s life. We put them on a cake and let the birthday person blow them out.”
“Grandmera would need a large cake to hold enough candles.”
Arisanna looks up at him, and a faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Was that a joke? Her smile grows at his words. “How old is she?”
“Just past two hundred.”
Images of Grandmera sitting behind a cake with two hundred candles on it flit across Arisanna’s mind, and she chuckles at the absurdity of the idea.
“In Lostariel, we skip the candles and just light the cake on fire,” he says dryly.
When she looks at him again, he’s smiling, and before she can stop herself, she bursts into laughter.
“It’s more efficient that way,” he adds.
“Stop.” She buries her forehead against his arm. “Now I’m picturing her trying to blow out a giant flaming cake as everyone sings to her.”
Cerian’s shoulders shake at Arisanna’s words, and that enchanting laugh flows from his throat. “You light a cake on fire and hope someone puts out the flame by blowing on it while you sing at them?”
“Candles! We light candles! Not cakes. And no one in Nunia has two hundred candles!” It still sounds ridiculous the way he put it, and she groans as she leans against him. “It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds.”
“Please don’t sing at me. I might run.”
“I’ve trapped you in the corner. You’re stuck now. It’s all part of my plan to torture you on your birthday.”
That elicits more laughter from him. It’s a sound she could get lost in.
Who would have guessed this broody elf of hers has a sense of humor?
“I’m content with your torture as long as you don’t start singing.”
Well. Now he’s flirting with her.
Sort of.
“What’s wrong with my singing? You haven’t even heard me sing. Maybe I have a beautiful voice.”
“Do you?”
She opens her mouth and closes it before hiding her face against his arm again. “No. It’s awful. Rominy got all the musical talent. I can barely carry a tune.”
Cerian laughs. “You really do mean to torture me.”
“Stop! It’s not that bad. But I’ll save you the distress of pretending your ears aren’t bleeding and keep my singing to myself.” Without thinking, she flicks his ear, and his laughter cuts off as his eyes grow wide.
Stars above. She touched his ear.
Hopefully, he doesn’t light the cake on fire again.
Or anything else.
“I’m sorry.” She looks hesitantly up at him.
He shakes his head but says nothing.
What is that supposed to mean?
When he continues to say nothing, she turns back to the cake and tries not to think about his ears.
She didn’t get a cake for her birthday this year. She was too busy meeting Cerian and preparing for their wedding.
Not that anyone would have put twenty candles on her cake. It’s more of a tradition for children than adults. They joked about putting candles on Father’s cake on his last birthday, but it was all said in jest. Sixty-five candles seemed like so many at the time.
But it’s nothing compared to two hundred.
“Cerian?” she says softly.
He clears his throat. “What is it?”
“Will you die when I do? A human lifespan? Have I stolen most of your years from you?”
The thought makes her sick. Why didn’t she think to ask before she bound her heart to his? Elves live five hundred years, give or take a few decades. She knows that. She’s known that for as long as she can remember.
“No,” he says.
She turns to look at him. “No?”
“Our healers believe I will sustain your life beyond a normal human lifespan. My parents would never have made the offer of the heartbinding otherwise.”
“They believe? But they don’t know?”
He shakes his head and glances away.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know. I wasn’t thinking. I—”
He presses a finger to her lips, which is both shocking and amazing. “I am not sorry. You aren’t allowed to be sorry, either.”
“But—”
“It’s my birthday. Stop arguing.”
Their eyes meet across the small space between them while Cerian’s finger rests on her lips. The air almost crackles with the tension growing around them, and her heart beats faster, leaving her breathless.
Heat flows from his flesh into hers, growing warmer by the second.
“Your finger is getting warm,” she whispers against him.
He quickly reclaims his hand, flexing it as he pulls back, and she feels the loss of his heat against her lips.
“Shall I give you some space?” she asks quietly.
His jaw twitches a few times before he nods. “But...don’t leave.”
The look he sends her warms her even more than his touch did. His intense emerald eyes set her whole body tingling.
“I won’t,” she breathes. “Until my end of days.”
Her heart pounds, and his eyes drop to her lips. Does he want to kiss her? That sounds like a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
At the moment, anyway.
She hurries to the other side of the table to put some space between them, and he purses his lips as he breathes out slowly, calming her racing heart along with his own.
Neither of them speaks. Then Cerian looks thoughtfully from her to the cake. What is he thinking?
As she looks on, he picks up the forks Cook sent.
“Tell me how this was supposed to go?” His voice is warm, though hesitant.
What is even talking about?
“How what was supposed to go?” she asks.
“The cutting of the cake.”
Her eyes lock with his as vulnerability and sincerity swirl within his gaze.
Stars above. He’s re-creating the cutting of their wedding cake.