Page 53 of May: Bloom & Bane

“Sorry! I’ll be gentler,” he murmurs sheepishly.

He rakes his claws through the butter and flour, and to my surprise, it works really well.

Until… he gets a little too confident. He flicks his wrist to shake off excess dough, and the glob of buttery flour flies through the air, landing with a wet splat right on the bridge of my nose.

He freezes, his other hand still buried in the bowl. His eyes widen as he stares at my face. “Accident,” he whispers, a mischievous glint sparkling in his eyes.

“And this,” I say as I wipe the dough from my nose, “is why you are the sous-chef.”

I lift his flour-coated wrist and pull the bowl toward me. He watches with curiosity as I show him how to take spoonfuls of the sticky, buttery dough and drop them onto the honey-soaked peaches.

“It looks like… little stepping stones,” he murmurs, his eyes following the way the white dough sits in little islands atop the sea of orange fruit.

“Exactly,” I murmur, handing him the spoon. “They’re cobbles.”

His wings flutter slightly with concentration as he places the last three dollops in place. He slides the heavy skillet into the oven. Nook lets out a satisfied creak as the door clicks shut.

A rustle comes from the corner pantry before the door pops open. Droot waddles out, at least two pounds heavier than when I saw him last. He stops at Sage’s ankles, flops his oversized ears back, and lets out a tiny demanding squeak, pointing one little paw at the warm oven door.

“Ah,” Sage says, crouching down with his hand still dusted in flour. “The health inspector has arrived.”

Droot ignores Sage entirely, hopping over to the mixing bowl on the counter. He bounds up the side like a tiny, furry mountaineer and face-plants directly into the sweet, buttery dough left at the bottom.

“Droot, no!” I laugh, reaching over to pluck him out. He wriggles in my palm, covered head-to-toe in white flour like a little powdered donut, twitching his pink nose and letting out a satisfied sigh.

Sage shakes his head, an incredulous smile warming his face. “A king, and a head chef… upstaged by a flour-dusted bunny.”

Right before our eyes, the spilled flour on the counter begins to sweep itself into a pile before the counter seems to swallow it along with the sticky peach juice until the surface is spick and span.

Sage leans back against the counter, huffing that same strand of hair out of his eyes. “That’s convenient. I wonder if Nook does laundry, too.”

I hop onto the counter next to him, my legs swinging back and forth. “Sage, you don’t even wear clothes.”

He looks down at himself, and a shy smile spreads across his face. “Fair point.”

“Since we’re waiting, would you like to learn some more words in my language?” He steps into the space between my legs.

“Yes! I would love that.”

He takes my hand and turns it palm-up, using the soft pad of his index finger to trace a swirling shape over my skin.

“There’s a word for the way you look right now. Sitting on the counter, covered in flour, looking at me like I’m not a monster.”

I swallow hard. “Tell me.”

“Vash’nái ílyara,” he whispers, tracing the lines of my palm. “It means the light that finds hidden things. The sun that reaches the roots.”

His eyes search mine. “You are my Vash’nái ílyara, Eden. I don’t think I’ve ever had a word, in any life, for how much of a light you are, but this one comes close”

My hand trembles in his as the phrase echoes in my mind.

“Can you teach me how to say something?”

He nods. “What do you want to say?”

“I want a word for the way I feel. For the way the house hums when you walk through it. Or the way my chest feels like it’s too small to hold my heart when you look at me like you are right now.”

He leans in, his forehead brushing against mine. The scent of cucumbers and rainwater fills my lungs.