Page 46 of The Longing

It was better than he expected.

I’m pretty sure Fenrother is probably unkillable, but I’d very much like to strike him dead. He might not know much…anything…about relationships, but some level of effusiveness would have been nice.

“Better than expected,” I mutter to myself, sliding into the bath and quickly washing.

I don’t want to linger. I don’t want Fenrother to get the wrong idea or to think he can join me. I don’t want anything from him.

I’ve given the Wyrm enough, and all I get isbetter than expected. Has he learnt nothing?

Opening the bathroom door, having completed my ablutions, I march out, ignoring the bed and the huge monster sitting there. Instead I jerk open the wardrobe, pull out some underwear and a gown, both of which I wrestle on before, without a backward glance, I leave the bedroom.

I leave the Wyrm to his own devices. Fenrother will do what he will do, and I want a good look at that book Meg of Maldon gave him. I need to find out what it has been teaching him. Perhaps make some notes in the margins.

In the great hall, the table is laid for breakfast. Unlike the previous mornings, rather than the stodgy porridge offerings, today there is bread, pastries, and…coffee!

The sharp, dark scent reaches me, and I pull up my skirts in order to practically run to the far end of the vast hall to confirm if my nose is telling the truth.

There’s a large pot, and as I flip the lid, the smell of coffee confirms it is absolutely what I think it is. I pour out the fragrant liquid into a flagon and add some milk. The first sip tells me this is good coffee.

“Thank you,” I say out loud to the invisible Duegar. “This is really appreciated.”

If they hear me, if they even care, they don’t respond.

“What is thatsmell?” Fenrother is wrinkling his nose and lifting his lips like a cat.

I am not going to let him spoil my enjoyment. I take another sip of the drink and savour it. “Coffee.”

Fenrother’s chest rumbles as he swipes up the jug, flips the lid, and sniffs at the liquid.

He lifts it as if he’s going to drink directly from the pitcher.

“NO!” I say, pulling it from his hands.

He releases it in surprise.

“You do not drink coffee like that,” I admonish, pouring him out some into a tankard and adding milk, plenty of milk.

“Coff-ii?” Fenrother queries, confirming what I already thought—this drink is not for him.

“It’s a hot drink made from roasted beans which humans, like me, enjoy.”

He snorts, glaring at me as if I’ve introduced a rodent infestation into his castle.

“Try it.”

I hold out the tankard. Fenrother stares at it like it’s an unexploded bomb. It’s my turn to make a frustrated noise. He takes it, and I can return to mine, sinking down into the chair and doing my best to block him out as I swallow down the beautiful nectar.

Of course, I can’t ignore the Wyrm in the room. He dominates it. And, of course, I’m invested in what he makes of the coffee, even though I shouldn’t be.

It’ll probably bebetter than expected.

Fenrother sniffs at the coffee and lifts the tankard to his lips, taking in what can only be the tiniest of sips.

He’s a very careful Wyrm.

He doesn’t wince but instead raises his eyebrows, and his wings open and close a little before he takes a larger mouthful. I find I have a coffee convert.

Who knew?

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