Hawthorne fell instantly quiet.
“She’s the king’s bladesmith,” he murmured, watching her.
When she withdrew her finger, Hawthorne reached for her wrist and drew her hand closer to examine the cut. “Let me bandage this.”
It was only a thin red line now, so Emeline shook her head. “It’s fine.”
Letting go, Hawthorne stepped back and put the contaminated knife in the sink. After reaching for a new one, he quickly and efficiently chopped her onions.
“Why don’t you do what you’re good at.” He nodded to the sheet music resting on the countertop. “And leave the chopping to me.” He scraped the onions into the pot, then reached for a cord of purplish-white garlic bulbs hanging down from the window over the sink.
She crossed her arms. “You don’t think I can do this.”
“Do what?” He broke off a flaky bulb, peeled four cloves, then started to crush and mince them.
“This.Cook.”
He paused his chopping and raised an eyebrow. “Can you?”
The last thing she’d cooked herself in Montreal was a package of instant noodles. She glanced away, reaching for the stack of music. “I’m not great at it, no.”
“Well, I happen to be good at it. So relax.” He nodded to the windowsill above the sink, where a mason jar perched. Another object from her world.Curious.“Have some of Rooke’s moonshine, if it will help. Then sing through those two songs. By the time you finish, this soup will be simmering, and I can assist with the next one.”
Emeline hoisted herself onto the pale wooden countertop and reached for the jar of moonshine. Twisting the lid off, she brought it to her nose, sniffed, then raised it to her lips. As Hawthorne scraped the garlic in with the onions, she took a sip.
The liquid burned like a wood fire on its way down, all smoke and heat, the warmth of it flooding her.
“Oh,” she murmured, surprised by its strength.
As the smell of cooking onions flooded the kitchen, she took a fuller sip, leaned her shoulders against the cupboards, then did as Hawthorne suggested: with the Song Mage’s music on her lap, she sang though the songs she’d learned.
Both were ballads about a woman “marked by the moon.” In them, the Song Mage praised his muse, describing her midnight hair, her rosebud mouth, her rocky spine. They were odes to her unparalleled beauty.
“He’s a little obsessed,” said Emeline when she finished singing. “Even herteethenchant him.” She browsed through the next ballad—also about his moon-marked woman. “And she must have had some pretty sexy ankles, because there’s an entire verse devoted to them in the next song …”
The corner of Hawthorne’s mouth turned up. “Maybe ankles were his weakness.”
Emeline glanced up at the young man cooking her dinner. He was like the forest, she thought. Quiet and steadfast in the way he held himself, with secrets hidden beneath.
What’s your weakness?she wondered.
Emeline cleared her throat, trying to ignore the heat creeping across her cheeks. She took another sip of Rooke’s moonshine. “Everything about her appears to be his weakness. It seems too good to be true.”
Hawthorne, absorbed in his work, said nothing.
As the alcohol hit her bloodstream, Emeline grew warmer. Brighter.Watching Hawthorne cook, it struck her again how human he seemed. Thinking of his concern over Daphne’s lost humanity, she glanced to his shadow. It didn’t twist like Rooke’s and Sable’s. It didn’t hint at any other form.
She decided to brave a question. To test the waters before she asked about Joel.
“Hawthorne?”
“Hmm?”
“What are you?”
Hawthorne—who was in the middle of turning the roasted tomatoes over with a wooden spoon—froze. “I’m sorry?”
She thought of the books on his shelves.
