Page 7

Propelling himself with his wings, the cat darted past her ankles inside the cracked-open door. She supposed this must be where her new furry friend lived. Not a stray. She was a little disappointed. She’d started to, privately of course, think of the gray-furred, green-winged cat as her cat.

She stepped in and closed the door behind her.

Inside, it was toasty warm. And tiny. And perfect.

Dripping snow on the front mat, she looked around and loved every inch of it.

Beneath a window on her right was a bed piled invitingly high with pillows and blankets.

A narrow desk with neatly stacked papers and envelopes sat beside it.

On her left was the kitchen with a sink and cabinets, all very neat and clean with plates and bowls stacked beside cups.

Opposite the front door was the fireplace, with a hefty cushioned chair that looked perfect for curling up with a book, and in the center of the room was a table with a bouquet of lilacs in a pitcher.

A little wooden door near the sink most likely led to the washroom.

Dried herbs and flowers hung from the rafters, and it all smelled like—

“Soup.” She breathed the word like a benediction.

It wasn’t just the dried herbs she was smelling; it was the rich, heavy aroma of cooked…

whatever was cooking over the fire. She didn’t care what kind it was.

It was glorious, beautiful soup! She started toward it before it occurred to her that it was rude to help herself when she didn’t even know if this was in fact the gardener’s home.

The judge who had condemned her wouldn’t look kindly on her if her very first act after being restored was to trespass and steal.

On the other hand, the judge wasn’t here, and the soup was.

It had to belong to the gardener, she told herself, didn’t it?

She dithered by the door for another moment, while the winged cat curled up on the comfy chair and spread his feathers out to dry in the heat of the warm fire.

Hunger won, as well as the amazing smell of the soup.

I’ll only have a little.

After taking off the borrowed coat and scarf and hanging them on a hook by the door, she retrieved a bowl from the kitchen cabinet, crossed to the fire, and ladled herself two scoops of cut-up vegetables and broth.

She didn’t hesitate when she sat at the table—she immediately put a spoonful in her mouth.

At the Great Library of Alyssium, all the librarians’ meals were prepared by unseen cooks in a kitchen on a level devoid of books.

Several of their cooks were high-caliber chefs, with a pedigree that included many noble houses and often even the imperial palace.

They were expected to provide meals for the sorcerers who consulted the library, and so for that reason, they often turned out perfectly roasted meats, delicately spiced pastries, and mouthwatering desserts with custards that looked like they were made of molten gold.

Terlu had often ordered just desserts for her meals, especially near the end, when she felt she needed more and more comfort food.

Once, she’d gotten an exquisite puff pastry swan, a leftover from an imperial party that had been held in one of the grander rooms of the library.

Her fondness for sweets was part of why a lover had once described her as “pleasantly huggable,” a description she was perfectly fine with if it meant she’d gotten to eat pastry swans.

She’d also had some amazing meals on her home island of Eano: a coconut curry made by one of her aunts that had been known to reduce grown men and women to tears, a duck roasted over a fire pit after marinating in a special secret sauce, and dragonfruit jelly on a hot, buttery donut…

But Terlu thought she had never tasted anything as good as this soup.

Did he make this?

It had herbs she had no name for, but they made her feel as if she were being hugged.

It was warm and nutty, and the vegetables—which she also couldn’t identify—were sometimes sweet and sometimes tart and always perfect.

The broth warmed her throat, straight down to her stomach, and she felt its warmth spread to the rest of her.

It was impossible to think about anything else while she ate, and so she just ate and tasted the sweet and the spicy and the nutty and the warm, while the winged cat purred louder and louder by the crackling fire.

After making sure there was plenty still in the pot for the gardener, she had a second bowl, and then finally, for the first time since becoming human again, felt like herself. She smiled at the cat, at the cottage, and at the empty soup bowl. And she began to think again.

Clearly, this was the gardener’s cottage, and just as clearly, he planned to return soon—he’d left his soup to cook, so even if he hadn’t been expecting to be feeding her, at the very least he intended to come back for his dinner once he was done with his work.

If she just waited here, then he’d come home, and she’d be able to have the conversation that she’d wanted to have in the greenhouse.

He’d answer her questions, and she’d figure out why she was here, whether it was intended as a gift or a punishment, and what she was supposed to do next.

While she waited, she cleaned and dried her bowl and spoon, as well as the little puddles of water she’d left when she’d tramped in snow from the outside.

That took only a few minutes. After that, she looked out the window at the snow, which was now falling lightly, and the greenhouse.

She hadn’t noticed earlier, but during her meal, the sun had set, and the outside was settling into soft shadows. He’ll be home soon.

When “soon” didn’t come soon enough, she picked up a book that was on his desk, The Care of Orchids by Evena Therro, and sat on the foot of his bed to read.

The winged cat had claimed the only chair that wasn’t wood, and the pillows were so downy—they felt the way fresh-fallen snow looked like it should feel.

Opening the book, she began to read.

She didn’t intend to fall asleep, but with the falling light outside, the gentle whisper of snow on the window, the warmth of the fire, and the softness of the pillows… she was lost by the end of the third chapter.