Page 58 of Fey Divinity

“We don’t cook things until they’re dead,” Dyfri explains as I sauté mushrooms. “We warm them gently until they’re willing to change.”

“Right. So more of a... negotiation with the food than actual cooking.”

“Precisely.” He watches me add herbs to the pan with the sort of intense focus he usually reserves for political negotiations. “Though you do have excellent knife technique.”

“Thanks. I picked it up at university. Cooking was cheaper than eating out.”

“You cooked for yourself?”

There’s something almost wondering in his voice, as if the concept of self-sufficiency is foreign to him. Which, given that he’s probably had servants his entire life, it probably is.

“Still do, when I get the chance. There’s something satisfying about making something with your own hands, you know?”

Dyfri nods slowly, though I suspect he doesn’t know at all. “I’ve never... that is, food has always simply appeared when needed.”

The quiet admission makes my heart clench. Another reminder of how isolated his life has been, how many simple experiences he’s never had. How royalty is just a different kind of prison.

“Well,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, “today you get to experience the ancient human art of trial and error in the kitchen.”

I add a splash of elderflower cordial to the mushrooms, hoping it might provide some of that otherworldly flavour he’s used to. The kitchen fills with a delicate floral scent that makes Dyfri’s eyes widen slightly.

“That’s... actually quite promising,” he admits.

“Really?” I can’t help the pleased note in my voice.

“The scent is reminiscent of moon-blooms. They’re a common ingredient in fey cuisine.”

I make a mental note to buy more elderflower cordial. Lots more.

By the time I plate up our improvised lunch, herb-crusted salmon with elderflower mushrooms and honey-glazed carrots that I’ve convinced to caramelise through what I can only describe as enthusiastic encouragement, I’m cautiously optimistic.

Dyfri takes his first bite with the careful precision of someone expecting disappointment. His expression remains politely neutral, but I catch the slight pause, the way he chews thoughtfully.

“Well?” I ask.

“It’s...” He searches for words. “Better. Significantly better than the usual offerings.”

It’s hardly a ringing endorsement, but coming from someone whose usual food apparently sings and sparkles, I’ll take it.

“But still not quite right,” I conclude.

“The flavours are more complex than typical human cuisine,” he says diplomatically. “The elderflower was particularly inspired.”

I watch him take another bite, noting how he’s actually swallowing this time instead of just pushing food around his plate. Progress, even if it’s not perfect.

“I could arrange for meals to be brought over from the court,” I offer. “Proper fey food that you’d actually enjoy.”

Dyfri goes very still, his fork halfway to his mouth. “You would do that?”

“Of course I would. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it would be complicated. Logistically challenging. It would require negotiations with the fey court, security arrangements, probably diplomatic protocols I can’t even imagine.” He sets down his fork and stares at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You would go through all of that just to ensure I have palatable meals?”

The way he says it makes my chest tight. As if the idea of someone going to trouble on his behalf is so foreign that he can barely process it.

“Dyfri,” I say gently, “you’re my husband. Of course I’d go to trouble to make sure you’re comfortable and well-fed and happy.”

“Happy,” he repeats, as if testing the word.