The Enchanted Greenhouse(67)
Curled in the blankets, Emeral purred. Terlu felt her face flush all the way down her neck. Nice kitty? Ugh, why couldn’t she just—
She felt his hand on her shoulder. Warm. Solid.
Terlu turned and looked into his eyes. He had flecks of gold in his irises, swimming in emerald green. Her breath caught in her throat. He had the kind of eyes you could sink into.
“You’re dripping on the cat,” he said.
“Oh!” She jumped away from the bed. Scurrying over to the fire, she shed her clothes and pulled on a dry tunic that he handed to her. It was made of the softest wool, and it hugged her body. Act normal. “Should we heat up soup?”
“I’ll bake rolls,” he offered. “The dough should have risen by now.”
“When did you have time to make dough?”
He shrugged. “It relaxes me.”
“Oh. Oh! I didn’t mean to imply that you shouldn’t be taking the time to make dough.” She wished she dared say that she could think of another way to relax … She also wished she could command her cheeks to stop blushing.
He divided the dough and began rolling each chunk into a ball. He paused halfway through and frowned. “Honey butter,” he muttered as he turned toward the sink to wash his hands.
“I’ll get it,” Terlu offered.
She went to the icebox and found a full pot of honey butter. Carrying it over to him, she noticed he was staring at her—Probably because he thinks I’m odd, not because he thinks … anything else. She was certain he didn’t dislike her anymore, but that wasn’t the same as wanting to kiss her. She tried to not fixate on his lips and instead she plastered a smile on her face as she held out the butter.
“A spoonful on each roll,” he said.
He didn’t move away as she scooted closer to spoon a heap of honey butter on each unbaked roll. Without looking at him, she was conscious of his nearness—her skin was as aware of him as it was of the warmth of the fire. She listened to him breathe as she spread the butter. Her hand shook slightly, and she hoped he didn’t notice.
Stop being ridiculous. He barely tolerates me, and that’s only because I can read spells. She stepped away when she finished, and he slid the tray of rolls into the brick oven.
“What’s your favorite memory?” she asked him.
Yarrow began to shrug for the millionth time.
“You don’t have to answer.” She wasn’t sure why she’d asked, except she wanted to know more about him, to know what he was thinking and what he was feeling. Maybe if she could understand him … if he could understand her … the awkwardness would melt away. “My favorite memory is of an orange.”
“An orange?”
“I grew up on Eano,” Terlu said. “Lots of sandy beaches. Lots of guava and sweet-berry juice. No snow ever. My grandmother had an orange tree, a very special orange tree that had lived three hundred years, at least according to family stories. Not sure if that’s true; it easily could have been like my cousin’s pet koi that my uncle kept swapping out for a new fish every time it died. Anyway, not the point. My grandmother’s tree bore fruit very sparingly—three oranges a year, if it felt like it—but they tasted like sunshine. Sunshine at dawn on a perfect day. Everyone would compete to be worthy of one of these sunrise oranges, and she’d dole them out as a reward for special achievements. Like one year, a kid down the street saved his sister from drowning in a riptide. He got an orange. My aunt gave birth to twins. She got an orange. Anyway, my parents wanted me to spend the summer working in their store, learning what it was like to earn a wage, but instead of stocking shelves like I was supposed to, I read—I’d come across this old book in my grandmother’s house, and it was written in an old Eanoan dialect that no one these days speaks. People knew a few words here and there, but no one was taught to read it anymore. So I taught myself.” It was the first language she’d ever taught herself, the first time she’d realized she had a knack for it. Her parents had thought it was a waste of time. A near-forgotten language. What was the point? “On my grandmother’s birthday, I surprised her by reading stories from the book. It was an old book of tales that her parents used to read to her. She didn’t know how to read the language, even though she could speak it—she hadn’t heard those tales read out loud since her father had died.” Even though Terlu’s parents hadn’t understood, had in fact punished her by not paying her for the time in the store （which she’d admitted was fair since she hadn’t done the work she was supposed to）， it had been every bit worth it. “Grandma gave me an orange that day.”
“And it tasted like sunshine?”
“Like sunshine at dawn.” Terlu smiled as she remembered it. Some tastes you never forgot—they were too packed with memories. “It was the first time I realized I could be good at something. Before that … well, it was a memorable moment. Okay, your turn.”
“Um…” Yarrow shifted.
“You don’t have to.” She didn’t want to force him to share if it made him uncomfortable. She just thought … “It’s fine. I think the soup’s ready.”
He checked on the rolls. “A few more minutes.”
“Okay.” She busied herself with pouring water and setting out bowls and spoons. Over on the bed, Emeral stretched, spreading his wings out and then folding them onto his back.