Page 36 of Sanctuary and Spices
His markings brightened with each step, painting patterns of light that matched the crystal formations. My breath caught as he reached me, backing me against the singing wall.
“This is happening more often,” I whispered. The crystal warmed against my shoulders, humming in harmony with his markings.
“I know.” His hands settled on my waist. “I can’t seem to stay away from you.”
“I don’t want you to.”
He made a rough sound and pulled me closer. The crystal song swelled around us as his mouth found mine. I arched into him, fingers sliding under his shirt to trace glowing patterns.
“Jani...” He kissed down my neck as I mapped the paths of light across his skin. The wall thrummed against my back, energy building between us like a storm about to break.
A loud crash echoed somewhere above, followed by distant shouting. We jerked apart, breathing hard.
“That sounded like?—”
“Something near the upper promenade.” Ronhar’s markings still pulsed with my touch. “We should...”
“Yeah.” I straightened my clothes with shaking hands. “We should check that.”
The crystal song followed us as we hurried through the corridors, harmonizing with the station’s hum in ways I’d never noticed before. Or maybe I’d just never been able to hear it until now.
The commotion turned out to be a minor delivery mishap—someone had dropped a crate of fragile glassware meant for festival displays. Shards littered the floor, and frustrated voices filled the space.
Ronhar stepped in to help immediately, his calm presence settling the group as they sorted through the mess. I grabbed a broom and joined him, sweeping up the debris while the others salvaged what they could. The rhythm of working beside him felt as natural as breathing.
But even as we worked, I remained aware of Ronhar’s presence like a lodestone. Every accidental brush of hands sent sparks along my skin. His markings refused to dim completely.
I collapsed onto the stool at my prep station, wiping my hands on a towel as the kitchen finally quieted. My back ached from a full day of rushes, disasters, and solving problems that never seemed to end. But my heart felt full in a way I couldn’t quite explain—like I’d started to find a rhythm again, a purpose.
My tablet chimed. I sighed, expecting another logistics update or festival-related alert. But when I glanced at the screen,my breath caught. The message wasn’t from Pix or Soryn or one of the festival organizers. It was from my father.
Subject:Proud of You
Jani,
I’ve been hearing things. Trade routes are stabilizing through the Veil, and word of the festival preparations has reached the Guild. Your work with the Wanderer’s Rest is impressive, and it’s clear you’ve found a place where your talents are appreciated.
I want you to know how proud I am of you. I know I didn’t say it enough while you were chasing perfection at the Crown, but your ability to create something remarkable—something that brings people together—is rare.
Your grandmother would’ve said, “Cooking is love made visible.” I hope you’ve rediscovered that.
Whenever you’re ready, I’d like to hear from you.
—Dad
I stared at the message, my chest tightening. His words weren’t what I’d expected. They weren’t the sharp-edged commands or formal reprimands I’d grown used to. They were softer, warmer—a glimpse of the father I’d always wished he could be.
I set the tablet aside, my father’s words still echoing in my mind.Cooking is love made visible.
My gaze fell on my grandmother’s cookbook, sitting on the shelf beside the tiny potted Velthryn ivy Ronhar had given me. I reached for it, brushing my fingers over the worn cover. The edges were soft from years of use, the pages smudged with flour and grease.
Flipping it open, I found a recipe for red bean cakes. The handwriting was slightly faded, but I didn’t need to read the words to remember the steps. I could still hear her voice, gentle and patient, as she guided my hands through the motions.
“Mistakes mean you’re learning,”she’d said once, wiping flour from my cheek.“There’s no love in perfection, little one.”
I traced a smudge of batter on the page, my chest tightening. “You wouldn’t care about molecular harmony,” I whispered. “You’d just want to know if it made people happy.”
The thought brought a bittersweet smile to my lips. My grandmother had always cooked with joy, with love, with a kind of fearless creativity that I’d lost somewhere along the way. But here, in this place, with Ronhar and the garden and the café, I was starting to find it again.
