When the sand finishes dribbling through to the bottom, I lift the iron off the stove and hold it over where Nate is working before releasing the waffle inside.
It falls to the mat, looking a little too dark around the edges.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, tears threatening to fall as I look at the waffle. I'm not really almost crying over a waffle, but I can see how it looks.
"It's fine," Nate assures me. "We've got nine more to try and make."
"I ruined it..."
"You overcooked it. Do you think I never do that?"
I bite my bottom lip.
"I can show you how to split it with this one?" he suggests. "It's probably going to fall apart because it's cooled for too long, but it'll be good to show you."
"All right."
He smiles reassuringly at me and picks up a knife. He slides it into the middle of the waffle and spins it around while sawing with the knife. Despite his warning, the waffle splits in two easily, and he pulls it apart to show me the perfectly white insides. "Then you put the stroop on, leaving a gap around the edge," he says, showing me with a few gestures. "Sandwich it together and press it a little bit until you see the stroop."
"As simple as that?" I ask.
"Yes." He smiles. "Ready to try again?"
"I think so. I won't get distracted again." I can't completely guarantee that, but I'm going to try to. The last thing I want is to keep ruining the waffles.
I pick up a new ball of dough and place it in the position he told me to. This time, I count in my head as well as watching the timer, and flip it at the exact moment needed. My heart starts to race slightly as the timer approaches the last few seconds, and I have to remind myself not to pull it off too quickly. Underdone is as much of a problem as overdone.
Eventually, I release the golden brown waffle to Nate, and he quickly slices into it, pulling it apart while it's still steaming. He adds the stroop and squishes the pieces together, creating a stroopwafel exactly like the ones he's been sending me.
We go through the same motions with the rest of them, the system becoming easier for me as time passes, and by the time we're on our tenth stroopwafel, I feel like I've got it down to an art.
I release the final one and turn off the stove, giving myself a moment to watch Nate as he works. I admire the way he works with such confidence, likely having done this dozens of times before, potentially more if the notes in his journal are anything to go by.
"All right, done," he says.
"What do we do now?"
"Eat one," he says, picking up a stroopwafel and holding it out to me.
"It's still warm," I say as I take it.
"That's when they're best. Though you can warm them up over a hot drink. A lot of people do that in Wafeland."
"I prefer this way," I respond, biting into the stroopwafel and letting the flavours linger on my tongue. The cinnamon is a lot less overpowering in this form, and the whole thing is delicious. "I see why Veronica wants more of these."
He laughs. "I can too."
"Though I don't think I'm going to be able to make them on my own." A hint of the former sadness creeps back in.
"You might be able to with practice," he says.
"But I'm going to have to do that alone." The words hang between us, taking away a lot of the sweetness created by the stroopwafel.
Going our separate ways is going to be something we have to face sooner rather than later, and I'm not looking forward to it one little bit.
Chapter 18
The door to the banquet hall is held open for me, and a herald clears his throat. "Princess Evelyn, Duchess of Stramshire," he announces.
