Her gaze narrows. “Like teasing? Is flirting just your natural state, or are you avoiding work?”
“I’m deeply offended by that accusation.”
“I can tell. Should I go break some more things for you to fix?”
I feign contemplation. “That would be helpful. But are you sure you don’t just want to watch me work so you can stare at my ass some more? It is stage-worthy, after all.”
“Why do I get the sense you’re the incorrigible type?” She plants her hands on her hips. “Do we need a no-teasing rule? A no-flirting rule?”
“Hmm.” I tap my lips, then lean close so I can whisper in her ear. “You know, I never really learned to play by the rules.” At the hitch in her breath, I step away and head for the kitchen without looking back.
Not at the muddled expression on her face.
Not at the temptation curling between us.
Not at the sudden desire to lean in and kiss her.
That’s a whim that could lead me into trouble.
“Where is everyone?” she asks, following me in.
I must be imagining the breathy tremble in her voice, because when I turn to meet her gaze, she stands proud and innocent. Regal. “Aili is playing with the kids staying at Hollyhock Cottage.The rest are in town so Mikael and Katja can scope out locations. The other three are probably distracting them.”
“Locations for what?”
“Our play. We’re an acting troupe. It’s how we make money when I don’t have helpful fake fiancées around to break things I can fix.”
“Funny.”
With my next breath, I let sincerity slip past my bravado. “Whatever your reasons for agreeing to help me, Val—thank you. For me, and for them.”
Ah, there’s that pretty blush again.
I pull the pot off the stove and hand the spoon to my apprentice. “Give that a stir so you can feel how thick it should be.”
A big stove dominates this corner of the room, its black surface seasoned with years of use. The cottage kitchen is small but warm, the air thick with the scent of simmering milk and grain. Bundles of dried herbs hang above the window, swaying slightly in the draft that seeps through the rough-hewn walls.
While she stirs, I pull a few items out of the cupboard, setting them on the wood countertops that wait to be dusted with flour for the next step of our cooking lesson.
I was right to start simple, a fact confirmed when my student didn’t know how to start the stovetop heating, or the right proportions of rice to water. It’s a skill so simple, I don’t even remember learning it myself, but it gave me a thrill to see her joy watching the water begin to boil.
“Congratulations,” I say. “You’ve made your first rice porridge.”
“That wasn’t too hard,” she says, “now that I can turn the stove on without burning the place down.”
“Yep, pretty simple. You can use any short-grain rice, but I likepuurorissi. After it cooks, you simmer it with the milk until it reaches this consistency. From here, we can do a lot with it. You can serve it as a breakfast porridge with some berries, or cool it and add sugar and cinnamon to make rice pudding for dessert. But today, we’re going to use it as filling for Karelian pies.”
Her eyes widen. Every Wilder Fae should know how to make Karelian pies, but I’m guessing she never learned.
“Tell me you’ve at leasthadKarelian pies.”
“Yes!” she says quickly. “We had them in the morning after every full moon. I just never made them myself.”
There’s no lie in the sentence, but I can hear all the unspoken bits underneath. I’m picturing a luxurious room with servants passing around overly fancy Karelian pies and other baked goods to well-dressed revellers who danced the night away. It’s a far cry from full moon nights for me.
I clear my throat and mind. “We’ll let this cool while we make the dough.” I nod toward the ingredients. “Start by measuring the rye flour.”
Her sleeves fall back as she reaches into the sack of flour. She wears simple clothing, dyed in muted shades of brown and pale blue, more suited to a village girl than the silk-draped royal I was just picturing. The tunic is slightly too large, likely borrowed or given to her by someone like Daria. Even so, there’s an air of elegance in the way she moves, a careful precision and a foreign kind of grace.
