43. Honey & Cardboard
honey & cardboard
It’s nearly noon when my kná finally begins to soften. Eden whimpers as I carefully ease out, a warm stream of lavásia flowing onto the bed.
“Is it going to stop soon?” She gasps. “There’s so much.”
“Of course there is,” Ashán quips. “We were very thorough.”
I ignore him and reach for her. “Are you okay, Saevúra?”
“I think so,” she pauses, brushing a damp curl from her forehead. “But I definitely need a shower.”
“Of course,” I say.
Eden holds up both palms. “Alone! I need ten minutes of solitude where no one is licking me, scenting me, or telling me about my biological destiny.”
Ashán lets out a playful growl, his eye flashing with mischief.
Does she honestly think she can hide from us in the shower?
She scrambles off the bed, her legs a little shaky, but her spirit clearly intact. She sprints into the bathroom, and the distinct click of the lock sliding into place echoes through the room.
She laughs triumphantly from behind the wood.
Ashán huffs. The door is an insult.
Let her be, I chide. She’s had quite the morning already.
We make it a single step before we hear the unmistakable sound of the door unlocking.
From inside the bathroom, Eden groans exasperatedly, followed by a giggle.
“Sage! Tell Nook to mind its business.”
“Nook doesn’t listen to me, remember?” I call back as I head for the stairs. “Nook loves you, Eden. It doesn’t want you to be lonely.”
“Good house,” Ashán purrs.
He hums as we jog down the stairs. The floorboards warm under each step, morning light spilling in from the windows.
“She loves us,” he singsongs. “The house loves us. Everything in this realm—”
Thwack.
One of the lower oak cabinets swings open, and the corner of the door catches on our ass with a hard clap.
We stumble forward, nearly face-planting into the flour jar.
“Ow! Vresh!” Ashán yelps. His hand flies to rub the sore spot.
The cabinet door innocently swings shut and clicks into place.
“Did the pantry just assault us?” He scans the kitchen for further threats.
A bark of laughter escapes me. “I told you, Ashán. The house likes her. It thinks you are obnoxious.”
“I was being sincere,” he sighs, making sure to stay far away from the cupboards. “Traitorous woodwork.”
Droot chirps in amusement from his window hammock. Nook doesn’t like Big Bony Bird.
I tap an egg against the counter, but it doesn’t crack, so I tap it harder, and it shatters, sending a gooey, yolky mess all over my knuckles and onto the floor.
Let’s hope it’s my half that handled Eden’s egg, Ashán sighs.
You are a foul, disgusting creature, I mutter.
Disgustingly fertile, he corrects with a smug purr.
To emphasize its point, another cabinet door swings open, hitting him in the shin.
That’s what you get, shalvik. (Smartass)
Nook sighs, and the stovetop hisses to life on its own, the flames dancing at the perfect temperature. A heavy copper pan slides across the counter, guided by a stray vine that has snuck in through the window.
“See?” I murmur, wiping my hands as a bowl of perfectly whisked batter that I definitely didn’t mix slides toward the heat. “Nook has it under control.”
Nook is showing off, Ashán huffs. And it’s mocking me. I can feel it.
Can you blame it? I ask, leaning against the counter while the kitchen prepares a feast of honey-drenched pancakes and runny eggs for Eden. I bet it’s saying: Don’t get cocky, kid. I’ve seen you cry over her three times this morning.
I can practically hear him crossing his phantom arms and pouting in the corner of our psyche.
I was not crying, he mutters. My eyes were leaking excess divinity. It’s a biological side effect of the rut.
Right, I muse. Except this is my rut. A small smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. Yours hasn’t started yet.
The kitchen has clearly reached its limit with my incompetence. A vine snakes from the ceiling and wraps around my wrist, tugging me away from the kitchen.
I will hunt the finest meats for her, Ashán declares randomly.
She’s going to want crackers and ginger ale, Ashán. Not a raw elk.
Crackers? He repeats the word as if it has personally insulted his lineage. Dry, salted flour for the mother of my vúsha? Absolutely not. She requires marrow—
She requires not throwing up on the rug. If you bring a carcass into this kitchen, Nook won’t be the only one slapping your ass.
The sound of the shower cutting off echoes through the floorboards, and Nook lets out a joyful creak in the hallway.
She’s coming, I whisper. Try to look dignified and not like someone who just lost an argument to a cupboard.
I’m always dignified, he snaps. And we share a face, or did you forget?
Flowers! I murmur. I may not have made her breakfast, but I can make her an arrangement for the table.
I bloom a handful of sweet peas.
Perfect, I think.
They are… rather small, Ashán judges. She deserves more.
I can do more.
I focus on the ceiling. Vines explode across the beams, weaving bright wisteria that cascades down like purple waterfalls. Sunflowers erupt along the top of the upper cabinets. Lush, cotton-candy-colored hydrangeas bloom across the unused cutting boards.
I think she needs a little more, he rasps. We can still breathe in here.
Vines begin colonizing, every shelf turning into its own terrarium. The air thickens with a sensory overload of all the different breeds.
I spin around, inspecting my work and the kitchen… is gone. In its place is a claustrophobic jungle. The breakfast looks like a child’s tea set in the middle of a forgotten garden.
Nook lets out an amused groan.
I think I may have overdone it…
She’s coming, Ashán hisses. Act normal.
Look around. I gesture to the kitchen. There is nothing normal about this.
“Sage?” Eden calls out hesitantly. “Are you in there?”
“I’m here,” I call back, trying to fight back a particularly clingy piece of wisteria.
She ducks under a heavy vine, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt.
Her eyes scan the room.
“I…” I stutter. “I made you breakfast?”
Liar, Ashán coughs internally. We got swatted and watched the kitchen do everything.
She giggles. “And the flowers… did you do those too?”
“I… oversaw production,” I say, sheepishly rubbing the back of my neck.
She takes a cautious step into the room, her feet disappearing into a thick carpet of moss and fallen petals.
“It’s beautiful, Sage,” she says, standing on her tippy-toes to try and reach my cheek.
I chuckle and lean down until I’m close enough for her to make contact. “But I think the stove is currently being eaten by a hibiscus,” she murmurs next to my ear.
I look over, and she’s right. A giant red bloom has draped itself over the stovetop, looking very satisfied with its new home.
“I’m sorry, Eden. I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“Sage.” Her eyes sparkle with mirth. “This is the sweetest, most ridiculous thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“It’s a disaster,” I mumble.
She reaches over and takes my hand, lacing her fingers through mine.
“I like the flowers.” She wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes tightly. “You aren’t a disaster, Sage. You’re just… unique. And I think unique is exactly what I need.”
What a sweet little creature, Ashán whispers.
“Maybe we should eat outside? Before the wisteria decides the table is next,” she giggles.
I glance around the kitchen, and I can’t help but smile.
“Outside is perfect, Saevúra.”
I gather two plates of honey-drenched pancakes, perfectly runny eggs, and a carafe of orange juice. The morning sun is just beginning to crest over the tree line, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
Eden settles onto the top step, her oversized shirt riding up slightly as she tucks her legs beneath her.
I sit next to her and hand over the fullerplate.
“Thank you.” She takes a bite of pancake, honey drips down her chin, and Ashán’s hand darts out to catch it. Her eyes meet mine as his finger slips inside our mouth.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs.
“I’m memorizing.”
“Memorizing what?”
“This.” I gesture around us. “You. The way the light catches in your hair. The sound you make when you taste something sweet. All of it.”
A small crease forms between her brows. “Why?”
“Because moments like this don’t last forever, Eden, and I want to remember every single one of them.”
She leans against my shoulder, and we sit in comfortable silence as she eats. I don’t touch my food, too busy watching the way her throat moves when she swallows, and the way her fingers delicately hold each piece of fruit before she brings it to her lips.
“Why aren’t you eating, Vaelí?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I haven’t seen you eat much at all lately.”
Careful, Ashán warns. She’s starting to worry.
I pick up my fork and cut a small piece of pancake.
“I’m just a little tired. My rut takes a lot out of me, I’ll get my appetite back soon.”
“Mm.”
I lift the piece to my mouth and chew. The pancakes taste like honey and cardboard. Everything has tasted off since my migraine—everything but her.
Do you think we could survive off her alone? Ashán chides, but I can feel the small worried hum underneath.
She sets her empty plate aside and catches my hand before I can take another bite I don’t want.
“Sage.”
“Yes?”
“You’re a terrible liar.” She squeezes my fingers. “I won’t push. But if you want to talk. I’m here.”
Relief and guilt fight for dominance inside my chest.
“When you’re finished, will you bring my painting supplies outside? I want to finish my painting of the little beastie.”
“Of course, Saevúra.”
I push myself up, and the world tilts before settling back into place. Eden pretends not to notice, but I can feel her watching me while I cross the porch. Droot hops onto my shoulder. His tiny paw pressed against my forehead.
Big Bird feels very hot, he chirps, pulsing a worried shade of blue.
The kitchen is exactly as we left it besides a small colony of bumblebees pollinating some of the flowers.
Her painting sits in the front room, easel folded against the wall, a large wooden box of paints, and her brushes wrapped in a soft cloth she swears keeps them happy. The amount of care she pours into small things is one of the biggest reasons I can’t wait to see her become a mother.
By the time I get back to the porch, Eden has spread a soft quilt at the edge of the clover. She’s sitting cross-legged on it, her hair in loose waves.
Down, flowerboy, Ashán mutters. She just asked for paint, not another round.
I’m not—
You are, he murmurs.
I’m appreciating what her body is doing for us, I correct.
Same thing.
Eden looks up and smiles like she heard our whole exchange.
“Thank you, Vaelí.”
I set everything beside her. She catches my hand, tugging gently until I lower myself to the quilt.
“Lay down.”
“Right here?”
“Please. I want you close while I work. Maybe you can take a nap?”
I stretch out on my side, one arm folded under my head, the sun warming the membranes in my wings. The pain behind my left eye has dulled to a low pulse I can almost ignore.
“Just relax,” she whispers.
“I’ll try, Saevúra.”
She sets up the canvas on her lap. Her brush dips into the small dish of silver, and she starts working in soft strokes. The little furrow of her concentration is so lovely I forget I’m supposed to be relaxing.
“Memorizing me again?” she asks without looking up.
“Always.”
The corner of her mouth pulls upward. The soft whisk-whisk-whisk of the brush against the fabric soothes me so much that I close my eyes.
Somewhere in the meadow, Droot is loudly demanding that a beetle apologize for crawling on his strawberry.
Eden runs her free hand through my hair and the pain in my skull goes quiet.
There is only the sun, my mate, and a promise blooming somewhere inside her.