26. Phyllo-Based Joy #3
He’d said the same thing when he first saw me in the kaftan and makeup. I wasn’t sure what that meant. It was possibly the vaguest compliment in the history of the world. ”Good different or bad different?”
His lips curled into a faint smile. “Good different.”
I felt heat rise in my cheeks and looked away. “You clean up well yourself.”
Even injured and exhausted, that was an understatement of truly heroic proportions. But if I acknowledged exactly how well he cleaned up, I'd have to examine why I'd noticed. And that seemed like dangerous territory on a good day.
His mouth quirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” I linked my arm through his before I could second-guess myself. Which, given my propensity for overthinking, was saying something. “Come on. Let's get this over with.”
The sounds of laughter and music quickly grew louder the closer we drew to the festival grounds.
I linked my arm more firmly through Griffon's, anchoring myself to him. I got that fluttery sensation again, thinking about how solid his arm felt, and immediately dismissed it. You’re confused, Wren.
It was just excitement about the baklava situation. I could smell the honey from here.
The Festival of Light transformed the palace grounds into something from a dream.
Garlands of flowers and feathers draped over the crowds between silk canopies in gradients of pink and orange, like midday sunsets.
Cascading melodies of flutes, drums, and the silvery chime of finger cymbals carried on the air as the Soli people danced and laughed under the light of their god.
Performers re-enacted the death and rise of the phoenix with such drama that the main actor actually set his elaborate feathered wings on fire. On purpose. I couldn't tell if it was brilliant or insane. I was leaning toward the latter.
“That seems unnecessarily dangerous,” I muttered.
“It's symbolic,” Griffon said.
“It's a fire hazard.”
“That too.”
The crowd gasped and cheered as the actor spun dramatically, the burning wings creating spirals of sparks.
He seemed remarkably unconcerned about being actively on fire, which I supposed was both impressive confidence and a severe lapse in self-preservation instincts.
Given that I'd recently stood on an actual pyre, I felt qualified to have opinions about recreational flame usage.
We feasted on dishes fragrant with cardamom and saffron.
And then, as if it had been foreshadowed, I found an entire tray of baklava.
I’d only been joking about challenging the king to a math duel for dessert, but apparently the universe had decided to reward me anyway.
I groaned at the sweetness; the layers of phyllo, honey, and crushed pistachios melted on my tongue.
Griffon watched me with obvious amusement as I reached for my third piece. Possibly fourth. I'd lost count.
“You have honey on your chin,” he said.
I wiped at it hastily, probably smearing it further. “This is the Aether, right here on Earth.”
“I can tell.”
“Don't judge me. I was nearly executed this morning.
I've earned the right to excessive pastry consumption.” I gestured with the baklava for emphasis, sending a small shower of phyllo flakes onto my ivory skirt.
Excellent. Very dignified. I pushed the tray toward him.
“Come on. Live a little. You've spent the last week either imprisoned, bleeding, or being generally broody. You're due for some phyllo-based joy.”
His lips lifted into a genuine smile, not his usual sardonic half-smirk, and reached for a piece. “Phyllo-based joy?”
“It's a technical term. Very important concept in dessert philosophy.”
“Is that what you studied at the Citadel? Dessert philosophy?”
“Among other things. There was a whole seminar on the theological implications of honey.” I was absolutely making this up, but he seemed to find it entertaining, so I continued.
“Very controversial. Half of the monks thought honey represented divine sweetness. The other half insisted it was a metaphor for temptation. There were heated debates.”
“Naturally.”
“Frater Andren was firmly in the divine sweetness camp. He had very strong feelings about it and collected scrolls of observational data. I may have taken notes.”
Griffon's expression softened slightly at the mention of the monk. “You miss him.”
The observation caught me off guard, turning the moment abruptly sincere. I looked down at the baklava in my hands, the honey suddenly catching the light like liquid gold. “I do. He was…” I trailed off, searching for words. “He was kind. Even when he didn't have to be.”
“He cared about you.”
“And I cared about him.” A lump formed in my throat. “I hope he's not too worried.” I attempted levity again. “Though, knowing him, he's probably just annoyed I left our chess match unfinished. I was winning.”
“Were you really?”
“Absolutely. Had him in check in three moves.” This was also possibly untrue, but Griffon didn't need to know that.
I smiled despite the ache in my chest and reached for another piece of baklava, because apparently I'd decided to work through my emotions via pastry. A valid coping mechanism, in my professional opinion.
Dancers told the story of Helios's triumph over shadow during the Dance of Light and Darkness. It was beautiful with its sweeping gestures and synchronized spins. I swayed to the music, caught up in everything despite myself.
During the feather procession, children in yellow and orange costumes resembling tiny, waddling phoenixes paraded through the courtyard. A young girl, who couldn't have been more than five, shyly approached Griffon with a costume so big it drug on the ground behind her.
She held out a golden feather, its metallic tip catching the light. Griffon crouched down to her level and accepted the feather with surprising gentleness.
“Thank you,” he said, and the girl giggled, covering her mouth with both hands before turning and running back to her friends. The small cluster of floppy beaks and bent feathers erupted in whispered squeals.
He straightened and looked down at the feather with an expression that bordered on wonder. Like he wasn't sure what to do with the small, uncomplicated kindness. He rolled the shaft between his fingers.
Then, with a softness that transformed his usually stoic face, he reached over and tucked it behind my ear. His fingertips lingered near my temple.
My brain, naturally, chose that moment to completely malfunction.
“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”
Perfect. He'd called me perfect. Surely he meant the feather placement. Obviously, he meant the feather placement. Very symmetrical. Perfect feather alignment.
And then my usual defensive sarcasm fled the scene, leaving me standing there like an absolute fool with a decorative feather in my hair and what I suspected was still honey on my chin.
I should say something. Something witty and casual that would break this moment of alarming sincerity and return us to safer conversational territory.
Something about how golden feathers really tied together my ‘almost executed this morning’ aesthetic.
Or something about phoenixes and symbolism and completely unrelated topics that had nothing to do with the way my heart was currently attempting to escape my ribcage.
Instead, what came out was only: “Oh.”
Brilliant. Truly spectacular wordsmithing. Years of education at the Citadel, access to the greatest library in the kingdom, and I'd been reduced to single syllables.
A corner of his mouth lifted in the slightest smile.
The sun had painted the courtyard amber by the time the servant found us. His bow was low and apologetic. “The king requests your presence.”
In the space of a breath, Griffon folded away the man who had just tucked a feather behind my ear and replaced him with the sharply dangerous assassin I'd met in the catacombs. The transition was always jarring, no matter how many times I'd watched it happen.
His hand protectively found the small of my back as we followed the servant through the crowd. Tension radiated from him as we walked. His eyes tracked every guard we passed, every shadowed doorway, mapped every exit.
“It's probably fine,” I whispered.
“Probably isn't definitely.”
“He gave his word.”
“Words are cheap.” His hand pressed more firmly against my back. “Especially from royalty.”