Chapter 7 Iris #2
"My grandmother always used three to one."
"Your grandmother also thought bay leaves were decorative. Some traditions deserve to die."
I wait until Martha huffs off before approaching. The woman turns to me with a grin that's more mischief than warmth.
"Ashwood girl," she says, not making it a question. "About time you showed your face. I'm Greta."
"Iris. And this is..."
"The vampire. Yes, yes, everyone knows." She waves dismissively. "You're here for wassail spices."
"How did you...?"
"Thea was by earlier, said you'd likely be coming. Also said you don't know what you're doing, which is refreshingly honest." She's already pulling jars from her shelves. "Wassail is simple. Mulled cider base, apples, spices. The magic is in the proportions."
"I'm good with proportions," I offer.
"She's not," Cadeon says quietly from behind me.
I turn to glare at him. "Excuse me?"
"You measure by feel. You dump spices randomly. You don't follow recipes."
"I follow the spirit of recipes. That's different."
"It's chaos."
"It's intuitive magic, thank you very much."
Greta cackles. "Oh, I like you two. Here." She shoves a wrapped bundle at me. "Cinnamon, cloves, allspice, ginger, nutmeg. Specific proportions written on the paper. Follow them exactly or don't bother."
"I can follow instructions," I grumble.
"Hmm." She doesn't look convinced. "You'll need apples too. Good ones, not the mealy nonsense they're selling at the regular stalls. Go see Thomas on the north side of the market and tell him I sent you."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when the wassail doesn't poison anyone." She's already turning to her next customer. "And you, vampire. Make sure she doesn't improvise. Wassail is sacred."
Cadeon inclines his head slightly, and I could swear there's amusement in his eyes.
We move through the market, collecting supplies. Cadeon carries the packages without being asked, and I pretend not to notice the way people give us a wide berth. Some stare openly. Others whisper behind their hands. But no one approaches, and no one is actively hostile.
Small victories.
We're passing a stall selling evergreen wreaths when a street musician strikes up a tune on his fiddle. It's something old and cheerful, a Midwinter song I remember from childhood. My mother used to hum it while she cooked.
I find myself humming along, swaying slightly to the rhythm as I examine a particularly fine wreath.
When I glance back at Cadeon, he's staring at me.
Not scanning the crowd. Not watching for threats. Just... looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. Something between confusion and wonder, like he's seeing something unexpected.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
He blinks, and the look vanishes. "Nothing. You were humming."
"The song. My mother used to..." I stop, because his expression has shuttered completely. "Sorry. We should keep moving."
"No." He steps closer, and his voice is quieter now. "Don't apologize. It was... nice. To hear."
"Oh." I don't know what to do with that, so I just nod and turn back to the wreaths, very aware that he's still watching me.
We finish our shopping in comfortable silence, and by the time we leave the market, Cadeon is loaded down with packages and I'm carrying a wreath that's definitely too large for any reasonable door.
"This is going to look ridiculous," I inform him.
"Undoubtedly."
"But it's festive."
"If you say so, Mistress... Iris."
He still stumbles over my name sometimes, like using it is a small rebellion.
The walk back to the cottage is quieter, the forest path muffling the market noise. Snow crunches under our feet, and the packages crinkle with each step.
"Thank you, for coming with me. I know crowds are... difficult."
"It's my purpose. Protection."
"Maybe. But you also carried all the packages and didn't complain once about my terrible shopping decisions."
"The wreath was a terrible shopping decision."
"See? You're learning." I grin at him over my shoulder. "Next time I'll trust your judgment on wreaths."
"There will be a next time?"
"Of course. This is just the first market trip. There will be many more terrible shopping decisions in our future."
Something flickers across his face: surprise, maybe, or something softer. Like the idea of a future with more shopping trips is novel. Pleasant, even.
"Then I'll endeavor to prevent the worst of them," he says, so seriously that I laugh.
"Good luck with that."
Back at the cottage, I take over the kitchen with the focused intensity of someone who has no idea what they're doing but refuses to admit it.
"Wassail," I announce, spreading Greta's spice bundle on the counter. "Sacred, apparently. Which means we absolutely cannot mess this up."
Cadeon sets down the packages and moves to the table, taking his usual watching position. But this time, when I glance at him, he's not just watching. He's interested.
"Are you going to help or just supervise?"
"I was under the impression that helping would involve preventing your chaos."
"My intuitive magic is not chaos."
"You haven't read the instructions yet."
"I'm getting to them!" I unfold Greta's paper, which contains surprisingly detailed instructions and several alarming warnings about what will happen if I deviate from the proportions. "Okay. So. Cider base, apples, spices. How hard can it be?"
"Your confidence is concerning."
"Your pessimism is noted." I pull out a large pot and start assembling ingredients. "Come here. If you're going to judge my technique, you might as well be useful."
He rises from the table slowly, approaching with that careful grace. When he reaches the counter, he stands slightly behind me, close enough to see what I'm doing but not quite beside me.
"What do you need?" he asks.
"Apples. They need to be sliced. Thin. Consistent." I hand him a knife and cutting board. "You're good with knives."
His mouth twitches. "Adequate."
"Right. Adequate." I start measuring cider into the pot, double-checking Greta's proportions because I am capable of following instructions when they come with dire warnings. "So. Wassail. Do you know the tradition?"
"I've participated in wassailing ceremonies." He begins slicing apples with the kind of precision that should be illegal. Each slice is identical. Perfect. "It's meant to bless the orchard, ensure good harvest, drive away evil spirits."
"We don't have an orchard."
"Then you're blessing the cottage. The household. Inviting good fortune for the coming year."
"That's actually nice."
"Most traditions are underneath the ceremony." He's working steadily, the pile of perfect apple slices growing. "People forget that. They focus on the ritual and lose the meaning."
I glance at him, surprised by the observation. "Did Grandmother do wassailing?"
"Early on. Before she decided such things were frivolous." His jaw tightens. "She preferred efficiency over tradition."
"Well, I prefer tradition over efficiency. So we're making wassail, and it's going to be beautiful, and we're going to invite so much good fortune that the cottage won't know what to do with it."
"An ambitious goal."
"I'm an ambitious person. You'll learn." I start adding spices to the cider, measuring carefully. Cinnamon, cloves, allspice. The scent rises warm and sweet. "Okay. Now the magic part."
"Your intuitive magic?"
"My very carefully measured intuitive magic, thank you." I hold my hands over the pot, feeling for the magic that lives in my chest. It rises easily, warm and golden, smelling of herbs and home. "This is the important part. The intention. What we're blessing, what we're inviting."
"What are you inviting?"
I think about it, feeling the magic hum through my fingers. "Warmth. Safety. Joy. The kind of comfort that settles in your bones. Space to heal. Space to grow. Space to become whatever we're meant to be."
The magic pours into the pot, infusing the cider and spices. I can feel it taking hold, transforming simple ingredients into something more.
"That's beautiful," Cadeon says quietly.
I look up at him, and he's watching me with that same expression from the market. Like he's seeing something unexpected. Something that matters.
"It's just wassail," I say, suddenly shy.
"No. It's you." He adds the last of the apple slices to the pile. "Your magic. The way you care about things. The intention you put into everything."
"Even my chaos?"
"Especially your chaos." The corner of his mouth lifts—that almost-smile. "It's very determined chaos."
I laugh, adding the apples to the pot and stirring. The kitchen fills with the scents of cinnamon and apple and like winter festivals and warm fires. The magic settles, content, exactly right.
"There," I say, adjusting the heat. "Now it simmers for an hour, and then we'll have perfect wassail. Assuming I didn't mess it up."
"You followed the instructions."
"I did! Are you proud of me?"
"Deeply suspicious, but willing to be convinced."
I snort, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and realize there's something in it. I pull it out. A cinnamon stick.
"How did... " I look at the counter, where I've managed to scatter cinnamon across every available surface. "Oh."
"You have it in your hair," Cadeon observes.
"I noticed."
"And on your cheek."
"Also noticed."
"You're wearing more cinnamon than went into the pot."
"Are you mocking me?"
"I wouldn't dream of it."
But there's definitely amusement in his voice now, warmer than I've heard before. I reach up to brush the cinnamon out of my hair, which just makes it worse, sending a small cloud of spice into the air.
"Here." Cadeon reaches out, then freezes, hand halfway to my face.
We both go still.
His hand hovers in the air between us, fingers slightly extended. I can see the moment he realizes what he's done, the automatic gesture of helpfulness, of intimacy, something you do without thinking when you're comfortable with someone.
"Sorry," he says quickly, pulling back. "I shouldn't have..."