“How did it go?” he asked.
“Better than expected.” I leaned against the wall just inside. “She’s leaving. Flying home in a few days.”
“And you’re alright with that?”
“I think so. We talked for the first time in years. She told me why she left. It doesn’t fix everything, but it helps.”
He rose and crossed the small space between us, pulling me into his arms. I pressed my face against his chest and breathed in his scent.
“You were right about the small steps. We need to walk the distance together instead of alone.”
“I’m pleased to be correct about something.”
I laughed, the sound muffled by fabric. “You’re correct about most things.”
“Tell Drogar that. He believes I’m wrong about the fizzling discharge procedure.”
“Are you?”
“I’m not.”
We stood in his office, holding each other while the facility moved around us. Eventually, I’d need to do afternoon rounds. Examine the vellicharm. Make notes about Cooper’s release. All the normal things that made up my days here.
But for now, this was enough.
The rest of the afternoon passed. I checked vitals on the mirrormoose, who’d finally stopped reflecting nervous energy every time someone approached. Krem cornered me with questions about proper snugglethorn nutrition during nursing. Drogar demonstrated his revised fizzling grounding technique, which was essentially Brovish’s original protocol.
By the time evening arrived, I was ready to collapse.
Not finding Brovish in his office, I left, walking to the cottage, sunbeams slanting through the trees. Sofia rode on my shoulder.
Lights glowed inside Brovish’s cottage. I opened the door to the smell of something cooking.
He stood at the stove, his hair tied back, wearing an apron that was too small for him. The absurdity of it made me stop in the doorway.
“You’re cooking again,” I said.
“I am.”
“And you’re wearing an apron.”
“It seemed appropriate for the cooking task.” He looked down at himself. “Krem provided it. He said humans appreciate when cooking is done with proper cooking clothing covers.”
The apron had a cartoon cat on it that said, “Meow’s the time to cook.”
“It’s perfect,” I said.
“It’s quite small.”
“Still perfect.”
I dropped my bag by the door and strode into the kitchen, drawn by whatever he was making. Pasta, from the looks of it, with a sauce that smelled like garlic and herbs.
“I’m attempting a human dish, for you,” he said. “Traig found a recipe on the spider’s web. It’s called…carbonara? I may have done it incorrectly.”
“It smells amazing.”
“That’s encouraging.”
