“
It occurred to her that she had never thanked Arin for bringing her piano here. She found him in the library and meant to say what she had come to say, yet when she saw him studying a map near the fire, lit by an upward shower of sparks as one log fell on another, she remembered her promise precisely because of how she longed to forget it.
She blurted something that had nothing to do with anything. “Do you know how to make honeyed half-moons?”
“Do I…?” He lowered the map. “Kestrel, I hate to disappoint you, but I was never a cook.”
“You know how to make tea.”
He laughed. “You do realize that boiling water is within the capabilities of anybody?”
“Oh.” Kestrel moved to leave, feeling foolish. What had possessed her to ask such a ridiculous question anyway?
“I mean, yes,” Arin said. “Yes, I know how to make half-moons.”
“Really?”
“Ah…no. But we can try.”
They went into the kitchens. A glance from Arin cleared the room, and then it was only the two of them, dumping flour onto the wooden worktable, Arin palming a jar of honey out of a cabinet.
Kestrel cracked an egg into a bowl and knew why she had asked for this.
So that she could pretend that there had been no war, there were no sides, and that this was her life.
The half-moons came out as hard as rocks.
“Hmm.” Arin inspected one. “I could use these as weapons.”
She laughed before she could tell herself it wasn’t funny.
“Actually, they’re about the size of your weapon of choice,” he said. “Which reminds me that you’ve never said how you dueled at Needles against the city’s finest fighter and won.”
It would be a mistake to tell him. It would defy the simplest rule of warfare: to hide one’s strengths and weaknesses for as long as possible. Yet Kestrel told Arin the story of how she had beaten Irex.
Arin covered his face with one floured hand and peeked at her between his fingers. “You are terrifying. Gods help me if I cross you, Kestrel.”
“You already have,” she pointed out.
“But am I your enemy?” Arin crossed the space between them. Softly, he repeated, “Am I?
”
”