Chapter 11
Nate rolls the pain aux raisin dough into a tight log and starts cutting it into rounds.
Realising that I need to do something, I put rounds onto the tray, and they're soon sitting on the side, replacing the croissants that have now gone out to the ice house to rest before baking.
At least that means they're nearly ready, because I'm anxious to see how they've turned out and if they're going to be better than the ones I made myself.
Though I think I know the answer to that already.
Ember rouses as Nate sets a bowl of meat scraps in front of her. She raises her head, and barely waits for him to step back before setting them on fire.
"I'll make her like me yet," Nate says.
I laugh. "She will," I promise. "I like you, so why wouldn't she?"
"I suspect your taste in people is different to Ember's," he points out.
"Not really. She likes people who give her food and scratches behind her horns."
Nate's rich chuckle is music to my ears. "Do you want scratching behind your horns?"
"I don't have any horns," I point out.
Amusement dances in his eyes. "You have the spot behind them, though."
"I have no idea where you mean."
He steps towards me, so close that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. He reaches a hand towards my face, but then pauses. "May I?"
I nod without even thinking about it.
Slowly, Nate reaches out and brushes his fingers through my hair and to a spot behind my ear. "This is where the spot behind your horns would be," he whispers, his voice catching in his throat.
I swallow hard. "I don't think anyone has ever touched me there," I whisper, reaching up to put my hand over his so that he doesn't think of pulling away.
I meet his gaze, seeing something in there that I'm not used to seeing from anyone. I don't know exactly what it means, just that it's something, and I want him to look at me like this more often.
Before either of us can say anything, there's a choking sound from the top of the oven. We pull apart, and I hurry over to Ember, only to find her spitting out a bone.
"This wouldn't happen if you didn't eat your food so quickly," I chide my dragon.
She completely ignores me and gobbles down another piece of meat.
"It's a wonder she got to five," Nate jokes.
"Sometimes, I think that." I reach out to scratch my dragon behind her horns, thinking about Nate's touch as I do. I haven't let many people that close to me, other than Betsy when she does my hair, but that's different.
"I'm going to get the croissants," Nate says.
"That's a good idea," I respond.
He returns a few minutes later with the tray of chilled croissants. "Will you open the oven door for me?" he asks.
"Sure." I waver for a moment between the two ovens, then realise he means the gas one. I unlatch the front of it, being careful not to burn myself on the hot metal.
Nate slides the tray of croissants in and closes the door before turning over one of the smaller hourglasses.
"Why do we call them hourglasses when they don't always measure an hour?" I ask.
Nate gives me a funny look, then laughs. "What?"
"Well, it's an hourglass, but it's not measuring an hour. So why is it called an hourglass?"
"I think there are other names," he responds. "It's not called an hourglass in Gaullesse, they call it a sablier."
I frown. "Sablier," I repeat. "That means nothing to me."
"It's to do with the word for sand," he responds. "It's a zandloper in Wafeland."
"That makes more sense. Maybe I should call it something different."
"There might be a book about them in the Queen's library where you can find out more about their history," Nate suggests.
I wrinkle my nose. "I know I'm supposed to like that kind of thing, but you know I can't focus on reading unless it's about cake."
"True."
The rich smell of baking pastry fills the air, making my stomach rumble. I always underestimate how long it takes for things to be ready. One glance at the timer reveals that there isn't long left until they come out of the oven.
I catch Nate smiling at me. "What?"
"You're just so consistent," he says.
"I hope that's a good thing."
His smile reaches his eyes, making me feel warm inside. "It is." He heads over to the oven and carefully removes the tray with an oven cloth.
"I want to eat one now," I say.
He chuckles and sets the tray down on the table. "I know you do. You're supposed to wait for them to cool."
I make my way over to him and lean against the table. "They look good." The golden brown of the crispy outer pastry is making my mouth water.
Nate's amusement is impossible to ignore, and he takes me by surprise by picking up one of the croissants and tearing off the end of it. Steam rises up, but it does nothing to hide the fluffy interior.
He holds out the piece of croissant to me in an echo of what I did last night. But this time, no one is going to pull away. The air is cleared after the two of us talked.
I almost burn my tongue on the croissant, but the sweet and rich taste is enough to make up for it. My stomach grumbles, making him laugh.
"Apparently, you'll need a few more croissants."
"And at least one pain aux raisins by the time they're done," I respond. "I think Artie would like them too, if there are some to send up for breakfast."
"You know foreign chefs aren't supposed to do that," he says.
"You're not really a foreign chef though," I point out.
"No, I'm not."
My heart feels light with joy as I let the reality of this moment sink in. I'm here, in the kitchen with Nate, with nothing stopping us from spending every evening for the next week enjoying one another's company. I'm just going to have to try not to think about the upcoming separation.