CHAPTER 13
Thankfully, he actually laughed and came a bit closer to peer into the bowl.
“This is flour,” she said. “It comes from a plant”—she gestured to nearby plants—“like those. But it’s called wheat.” She traced a picture of it in the gravelly sand. “They grind it”—she motioned it—“to make wheat.”
He gestured to the bowl and she nodded, not really thinking how he was wet, for he reached in and grabbed some.
“Oh, you can dry your hand on me if you want or it’ll clump.
Actually, where was that towel?” But he didn’t understand and as she looked, she realized it was already too late: the flour had clumped together in his hand.
What she didn’t expect was for it to go right in his mouth.
“What are you doing?” she gasped as he recoiled a bit from the taste and spat it out. “It has to be cooked!”
He looked at her, his eyes so clearly showing he was not thrilled by the lingering taste.
“Cooked,” she said, “is when we use heat from fire—oh never mind. I’ll have to show you that one, I think.” Even if she gestured for it, there was no way a mermaid would know what fire was.
“And this is butter,” she said, picking up the plate. “This will taste better,” she promised, offering him a small piece.
He reluctantly took it and ate it. It wasn’t an obvious like either, but it was clearly more tolerable.
She didn’t even bother grabbing the book about cows, but she gave him a bit of milk—which he liked—and a bit of the beer—which he didn’t—and then she poured all the parts together and began mixing them until she was satisfied, and then pulling out some dough, she held it out. “A biscuit.”
He was obviously not convinced and it was true. Without the heat, it wasn’t just going to become one.
But he reached for it all the same, as if he truly trusted her.
“Wait, wait,” she said, withdrawing it from him. “I should say biscuit dough. I still have to cook it.”
“Cook?” he repeated.
“We use heat from fire to cook things.” She tried to make a symbol for fire by wiggling her fingers even though she was sure a mermaid didn’t know fire, and not surprisingly, he clearly had no idea what she was saying.
“Okay, one second,” she said, standing to leave him again. She pointed to the spot again. “Please wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Taking the bowl, she rushed inside and threw in some salt. She couldn’t take her oven to him, and they weren’t at the level of trust where he would want her to carry him—if a mermaid could even leave the water; she wasn’t sure.
She had never made bread on a skillet, but how much worse could it be? Heat was heat, right?
She grabbed a skillet as well as some kindling, a small log, and her flint and steel—which she needed to create the flame—and then headed back outside.
He was waiting and she picked up some smaller rocks to make a ring and then hopped back down to the rocks closer to the water. One at least was relatively flat. It was the one she had been standing on these last times and now she just barely had enough room for herself to sit and the wood.
“This is not ideal,” she said as she struck her flint and steel together and blowing, helped the sparks catch the kindling. He watched as she played with it until she finally had a decent flame going. Only then did she look at him. He looked as mesmerized as he had made her feel.
“Fire,” she said.
“Fire.” After a half second, he pointed to the top of the lighthouse. “Fire?”
“Mmm,” she agreed, nodding. “Also fire.”
“Also fire.”
He reached out but she stopped him. “It’s hot. You’ll hurt yourself.” She pointed to it and pretended to wince in pain. “Hot.”
He nodded once before his eyes fell back on it. With the faint glow against his pale skin, he was the mesmerizing one. To her at least.