Page 136 of Taste of Thorns
“Because he’s insane.”
“Probably. My sister used to call me Nini.” I smile.
“Nini,” he says, testing the name out.
“I gather she couldn’t pronounce my name properly when she was little and it just stuck. What was your nickname as a kid?” I ask before realizing my mistake. Thorne never talks about his past or his family. It must be painful and here I am opening up those wounds. “I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“It’s okay,” he says, swallowing. “My mom used to call me Chip.” I tilt my head. Thorne does not look like a Chip. He smiles again. “Short for Chipmunk on account of my seriously chubby cheeks.”
“You had chubby cheeks?” I say, not quite believing him.
“I used to.”
“I bet you were adorable.”
“Am I not adorable anymore, Nini?”
“I think you are, Grumps.” He laughs, and the sound is so unfamiliar it takes me by surprise for a minute. I think it even surprises him and I can’t help laughing myself, although the action makes my head hurt and I moan, rubbing at my temples.
“Do not make me laugh, or I may end up projectile vomiting in your direction.”
“Better get some food in you,” he says, walking into the kitchen. “Do you think you can handle some eggs?” I groan. “They’re meant to help. Not that I’d know,” he adds, smugly.
“I’ll give them a try, although …”
“Although?”
“I’ve heard about these things called pancakes …”
“My mom used to get the cook to make those for me whenever I was poorly.”
I shake my head. “Cook?”
He doesn’t respond, pulling out a frying-pan from the cupboard and then eggs and flour from the larder. “She was a kind woman, taught me how to cook. I used to hide out in the kitchen whenever …” He trails off but I know what he was going to say.
I lean my hip against the counter. The lightness from a moment ago has left his eyes.
“What was she like, your mom?” I ask softly.
He cracks an egg against the side of a bowl and pulls it open with his thumbs, the gloop inside slopping into the bowl. It reminds me of that night Blaze hatched onto my bedroom floor.
“Funny,” he says, then adds with a frown, “when she had the chance. Clever, talented, and determined. You remind me of her, actually. But mostly, she was kind. I don’t remember her ever raising her voice to me or saying an unkind word. Mostly, she tried to keep me protected.”
“She sounds very special.” My mom died the day I was born. I never knew her. The only things I had of her were the fleeting bits of information from my sister’s fading memory and one worn photograph. For a long time, it seemed like the worst punishment in the world. But now I’m not so sure. Thorne has had it worse. Knowing his mother, loving his mother, and then losing her.
Thorne tips flour into the bowl, a cloud of it rising up into the air, and then beats it with a spoon.
“I think my mom would have liked you, Nini.” The way he says that old nickname has the nausea dissipating and the magic singing in my body instead. “I think she’d probably have hated Beaufort, though.”
“Because he’s an asshole.”
“An unintentional asshole. His heart’s in the right place.”
“Yeah,” I say, “he has potential.”
Thorne chuckles again and that warmth glows right out to my fingertips. I want to make him happy, to lift all the darkness from his shoulders.
Next he adds milk to the mixture, mixing it around until it’s a dense yellow liquid. He lights the stove with a click of his fingers, melting butter into the pan, the smell making my stomach rumble, and then he pours the mixture in afterwards, the batter sizzling fiercely.
