Chapter 12 Iris
Iris
The morning after changes everything and nothing.
I wake to find Cadeon already in the kitchen, which isn't unusual. What's unusual is the state of the kitchen itself.
Every surface is covered with papers. Lists, diagrams, what appears to be a seating chart, and something that looks suspiciously like a battle formation drawn in neat, precise lines.
"Good morning," he says without looking up from the parchment he's studying. "You're late."
"It's seven in the morning."
"As I said. Late."
I blink at him, still foggy with sleep, and reach for the kettle. His hand intercepts mine, gently but deliberately, and redirects me toward a chair.
"Tea is already made. Sit."
"Are you... giving me orders?"
He pauses, something flickering across his face. For a moment I think he's going to retreat, going to fold back into the careful deference he's worn like armor since I arrived.
Instead, he meets my eyes with a hint of challenge. "You said you wanted me to want things. I want you to sit down and let me explain the situation."
Oh. Well, shit.
I sit.
"The Midwinter Feast is in five days," he begins, sliding a piece of parchment toward me.
It's covered in elegant handwriting: lists upon lists, organized with military perfection.
"Your grandmother hosted between forty and sixty guests each year.
Given your standing in the village and the current.
.. situation with the bonds, I expect similar numbers. Possibly more. Curiosity draws crowds."
"Forty to sixty people?" My voice comes out slightly strangled.
"At minimum." He's moved on to another list. "The menu must account for dietary restrictions, magical allergies, and the preferences of at least three guests who despise each other and cannot be seated within conversational distance."
"How do you know all this?"
"I've attended every Midwinter Feast Mistress Elspeth eve hosted.
I've observed." He sets down the parchment and looks at me directly.
"I've also planned military campaigns, coordinated supply lines for armies, and organized strategic retreats across hostile territory.
A dinner party is considerably less complicated than any of those, provided we approach it with proper discipline. "
I take a sip of tea I found on the table, and study him. He's different this morning. Still formal, still precise, but there's an energy to him I haven't seen before. Purpose. Enthusiasm, even, though he'd probably rather be staked than admit it.
"You're enjoying this," I say carefully.
"I am organizing a complex logistical operation. There is satisfaction in competence."
"That's not a denial."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "It is not."
I lean back in my chair, warming my hands on the teacup. "All right, then. Tell me what to do."
He blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
"You've clearly thought this through. You know what needs to happen. So tell me." I gesture at the papers spread across the table. "Give me my orders, Knight."
For a long moment, he just stares at me. I can feel his uncertainty through the bond, the old conditioning warring with this new, strange permission.
"You're certain?" he asks carefully.
"I'm certain I have no idea how to host sixty people for a formal feast. I'm certain you do." I smile at him. "And I'm certain that watching you be competent at something that isn't violence is unfairly attractive."
The look he gives me could melt iron. But he schools his expression quickly, reaching for the first list with renewed focus.
"Very well. First, the menu.”
What follows is the most organized three hours of my life.
Cadeon has opinions about everything. Strong opinions. Loudly held opinions, expressed in that formal, measured way of his that somehow makes them even more emphatic.
"The roast must be beef, not pork. Pork is traditional for Harvest Festival. Midwinter requires beef."
"Does it require it, or do you just prefer it?"
"The traditions are clear."
"The traditions are also two hundred years old and possibly made up by someone who really liked beef."
He fixes me with a look that suggests I am testing his patience. "The traditions exist for reasons. Beef represents abundance through the lean months. Pork represents autumn harvest. They are not interchangeable."
"Fine. Beef." I make a note on the list he's given me, my list, covered in my chaotic handwriting that makes his eye twitch every time he looks at it. "What else requires your approval, My Knight?"
"The table settings."
"The table settings?"
"Linens first. Then silver. Then crystal. Then plates. The order matters."
"I'm fairly sure the order does not matter as long as everything ends up on the table."
"It matters," he says firmly, "to anyone who was raised with proper etiquette. And at least four of your guests were nobility before their bonds. They will notice if you set the crystal before the silver."
"Will they complain?"
"They will notice. Which is worse."
I consider arguing, but he's already moved on to the next item, explaining the precise arrangement of candles required to achieve "appropriate ambiance without creating fire hazards or interfering with sightlines for conversation."
The man has clearly spent two centuries paying attention to things no one asked him to pay attention to. It's oddly endearing.
Also, he keeps touching me.
Not dramatically. Nothing like last night's desperate kisses and wandering hands.
Just... casually. A hand on my shoulder when he leans past me to point at something on a list. Fingers brushing mine when he hands me a new piece of papert.
His knee pressing against my thigh when he pulls his chair closer to show me the seating chart.
Every touch sends a little spark through me. Every touch says I'm allowed to do this now. I choose to do this.
"You're not paying attention," he observes.
"I'm absolutely paying attention."
"You're looking at my hands."
"Your hands are very expressive when you're explaining place settings."
He pauses, and I watch the faint flush creep up his neck. "That is not a compliment I have received before."
"Clearly you've been talking to the wrong people."
"I have been talking to war councils and battle commanders. They rarely comment on my hands."
"Their loss."
He clears his throat and redirects firmly to the next list. "The beverages."
By midmorning, we've planned the menu, arranged the seating (with three separate backup configurations in case of last-minute conflicts), and drafted a schedule for the next week that would make a military quartermaster weep with joy.
"Today we inventory the china," Cadeon announces, consulting his master list. "Tomorrow we assess the linens. The day after, we visit the village to place orders with the butcher, the baker, and Greta for additional spices."
"Do I get any input on this schedule?"
"You may suggest modifications. I will consider them."
"How gracious."
"I am magnanimous in victory."
I laugh. I can't help it. He looks so serious, so utterly in command, and yet there's a lightness underneath it all. A playfulness I'm only beginning to see.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing. You're just..." I search for the word. "You're happy."
He freezes. Not the dangerous stillness of threat, but the startled stillness of someone who's been caught feeling something he wasn't expecting to feel.
"I am... engaged," he says carefully. "There is a task. I am performing it competently. That is satisfying."
"That's not what I said."
"No." He's quiet for a moment, looking down at his lists. "No, it isn't."
I reach across the table and take his hand. His fingers curl around mine automatically. Like he doesn’t even think about it, and I love it.
"You're allowed to be happy," I say softly. "You're allowed to enjoy things. Even things that aren't life-or-death."
"This may be life-or-death. If the napkins are folded incorrectly, Magnus may actually expire from disapproval."
"Now you're joking."
"I am stating a reasonable possibility."
"You're definitely joking." I squeeze his hand. "I like it when you joke."
He lifts my hand to his lips—a courtly gesture, almost old-fashioned, but the way his eyes hold mine makes it something else entirely. "I find myself doing many things I did not expect," he murmurs against my knuckles. "Joking amongst them."
"What else?"
"Hoping. Wanting. Imagining futures I have no right to imagine." He presses a kiss to my palm. "Falling in love with a kitchen witch who cannot fold napkins correctly."
"I can fold napkins."
"You cannot. I've seen your attempts. They look like wounded birds."
"They look artistic."
"They look like something died on the table."
I pull my hand back to swat at his shoulder, but he catches it, tugging me forward until I'm half out of my chair. One more pull and I'm in his lap, his arms around my waist, my hands braced on his shoulders.
"This is highly inappropriate behavior for a planning session," I inform him.
"The planning session is on break."
"Is it?"
"I am declaring it so." He traces a finger along my jaw, tilting my face toward his. "As the organizer of this operation, I have certain privileges."
"Such as?"
"Such as kissing you whenever I wish."
"That seems like an abuse of power."
"Undoubtedly." He kisses me, so soft and slow and thorough, nothing like the desperate urgency of last night. This is something else. Leisurely. Confident. The kiss of someone who knows he's allowed and plans to take his time.
When we break apart, I'm breathless and he looks extremely pleased with himself.
"The break is over," he announces. "We still need to inventory the china."
"You can't just kiss me like that and then talk about china."
"I can. I just did." But his hands don't leave my waist, and his eyes are warm in a way that makes my heart stutter. "The china is important. You are also important. Both things can be true."
"Flatterer."
"I am merely stating facts."