Thread of Frost

Ch. 37: We Have A Situation

"What's a quart?" Owain asked.

The faerie prince was squinting down at the cookbook. Morning sunlight filtered through the kitchen window, illuminating the specks of white flour in Owain's auburn hair. A frilly pink apron was tied around his waist. He looked ridiculous, Tristan thought, ducking his head to hide a smile. Ridiculous, and oddly sweet.

Tristan set down the butter. "What?"

"A quart." Owain squinted. "This infernal book says to add a quart."

"The recipe," Tristan said pointedly, "calls for four cups of milk."

"I see," Owain said.

He crossed to the cupboard. Owain examined a mug — blue, speckled, roughly the size and shape of a small pumpkin — and placed it on the counter. Tristan watched, eyebrows raised, as Owain picked up a glass jar of milk.

"What are you doing?"

Owain paused. "I'm filling four cups of milk."

"Not that sort of cup," Tristan said. "Good gods." He held out a hand. "Give me that."

Owain sighed. "I don't see the point in this exercise."

He passed Tristan the milk. Tristan rummaged through the drawer, pulling out iron pans and wooden spoons. "You heard Sophie. Everyone pulls their weight in Tarhalla."

Owain hopped on to the counter. "I believe my talents would be better utilized elsewhere."

"Such as?"

"Espionage." Owain's long legs dangled inches from the floor. "Infiltrating enemy camps. I'm excellent at sneaking into small places; Sophie would do well to recognize that I'm a valuable asset."

"Ah," Tristan said. "That's not your biggest strength, though."

"And what is?"

"Modesty," Tristan said.

He held out a measuring cup. Owain looked warily at the kitchen utensil, as if it might grow teeth and bite him. Tristan turned back to the bowl of flour. His shoulder twinged as he picked up the spoon, and he shook it impatiently.

"Is it your shoulder?" Owain asked.

Tristan frowned. "How do you—?" He paused. "Oh. Right."

Owain hopped off the counter. "Let me see."

"It's fine," Tristan muttered.

"Tristan."

Owain's voice was stern. Tristan sighed, setting down the spoon. Owain's long fingers sunk into his shoulder, kneading and prodding. Tristan half-closed his eyes. Heat stirred in his stomach, and he braced his hands against the counter.

"How does that feel?" Owain murmured.

"Good." Tristan cleared his throat. "Better."

Owain's fingers dug into a knot, and Tristan hissed out a breath. When Owain spoke, his warm breath fanned the back of his neck. "In faerie, we would not feed these scones to even our most wicked and debased prisoners."

"They're raisin scones," Tristan said.

Owain eyed the pastry dough with distrust. "Exactly."

"You know," Tristan said, "I never thought I'd be making scones with the prince of faerie. It's a new experience."

Owain sighed. "I'm useless."

"That's true," Tristan murmured. "But I like having you here."

Owain's fingers stilled. He was standing close enough that Tristan could feel the uneven beat of his heart; it had a fast, disjointed rhythm to it, a sort of thumpity-thump-thump. He wondered if it was a faerie thing. Probably.