"The rooster."
"Mhmm."
"You're still calling it that?"
"He answers to it now. Renaming him at this point would cause confusion, behavioral regression, and emotional distress."
"Emotional distress."
"Roosters are sensitive, Keer."
"That rooster attacked three people in the last hour."
"Sensitive and aggressive." My voice comes out higher than I want. "You of all people should understand that."
My hands go back to the mortar. Grinding. Too hard. Ease up.
His boot shifts on the dirt. Closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him and my whole body leans toward it without permission and I want to dig a hole and live in it.
"Mel."
Don't do it Mel, don't look up.Don't.
"The animals are settled?"
"Bram's handling the goats. Rhen watered them. The hens are in the cages." I'm talking to the mortar. Needs my full attention. "Everything's under control."
He doesn't answer. I can feel him not answering—the silence has weight, has warmth, has the faint cedar underneath it that I'm pretending doesn't exist.
"The paste needs processing tonight," I say. "If you need anything from me, it'll have to wait."
A pause. Long enough that I almost look up. Almost. So proud of myself.
"Don't work through the night." Low, more of a grunt than anything.
"I'll work as long as the petals hold."
"Mel."
Just my name. One syllable. Short, rough, the L catching on the back of his teeth—and my face is burning and Dara is right there, watching, and I need him to leave before I embarrass myself in front of the only person besides me who's ever had her hands in this mortar.
"Goodnight, Keer." Too bright. The voice of a woman who is fine and has always been fine and is not currently on fire from the collarbones up.
He goes. His footsteps fade toward the far side of the clearing and I don't watch him leave.
Nope.
"The paste." Dara picks up the pestle.
"The paste." My voice is too high. "Right. Yes. Where were we? The ratio."
"Three to one for high-potency petals."
"Correct. Good. Yes."
If she noticed anything, she doesn't say. Her hands go back to the mortar and mine go back to sorting and the sun is going down and I can still smell cedar and I need to stop—
I don't stop thinking about his mouth.
