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"I didn't say you were unpleasant."

"You were thinking it."

"I was thinking you looked like you'd eat the cow, not milk it."

Zarek coughs into his fist. I lose it again.

Kaelen just turns and stomps off to the kitchen. And Elara, instead of leaving him alone like any sensible person would, follows him.

She leans her elbows on the counter right beside him. She watches him pour milk and cream into the big iron pot. She asks what he's adding. Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Cloves. She leans over the pot to smell it and closes her eyes and makes a little humming sound that goes straight through me.

"What's the secret ingredient?" she asks.

"There isn't one."

"There's always a secret ingredient."

He looks at her for a long moment. "Brandy," he admits. "A lot of brandy."

She grins at him. "I knew it."

And Kaelen softens.

I see it happen. The hard line of his shoulders loosens. The scowl he's been wearing for decades eases off his face. Every time she says something smells wonderful, he stands up a little straighter. Every time she asks him a question, he answers it. Full sentences. Sometimes two.

He's happy. I haven't seen him happy in so long that I almost don't recognize it.

Suffering, too, though. His knuckles are white around the spoon. When she leans in close to smell the pot, a faint ripple of red passes under the skin of his forearm, there and gone, like scales trying to break through. His eyes flash gold.

She doesn't notice. She's too busy stealing a taste off the spoon.

He doesn't leave, though. He stays right there beside her and keeps stirring.

That's new.

When the eggnog's ready, we gather around the fireplace with steaming mugs. Elara takes the big chair. I take the floor at her feet, because I can. Zarek takes the armchair across from her, and Kaelen leans against the mantel under the garland she made Zarek hang.

The eggnog is excellent. It always is. Elara takes one sip and moans, and three grown men all find something very interesting to look at in the fire.

Then she starts asking questions.

"So what are you three, really?" She tucks her feet up under her. "And don't say this and that. You're lords of some kind, aren't you? Nobles. Look at your clothes. Look at this cabin. You've got books with gold on the spines, and you talk like you've had tutors."

"We may have had a tutor or two," I admit.

"I knew it!"

So we tell her. As much as we can.

It's a strange dance. Every story has to be true, because Zarek won't stand for a lie. But every story has to be careful, too. No crowns. No kingdoms. Nothing that would tell her how long ago any of it happened.

Zarek tells her about growing up with a hard father who expected him to be perfect, and how he trained every day from the time he could hold a sword. He doesn't tell her what kind of man his father really was. He doesn't need to. She hears it anyway. I watch her face go quiet and thoughtful.

I tell her about my family and their endless disappointment that I'd rather throw a party than sit in a meeting. She laughs and says that doesn't surprise her in the slightest.

Kaelen doesn't say much. But when she asks about his scar, he tells her it came from a battle. When she asks which battle, he says a bad one. And then, after a long silence, he tells her that he grew up in a time of war, that he's been fighting most of his life, and that he's tired of it.

She doesn't push. She just nods and says, "I'm sorry."