Page 28 of Veinblood
“The temperature controls itself,” I explain while I season the turkey. “It will cook evenly without me having to tend a fire or keep rotating it.”
He nods, processing the information with the same focused attention he gives everything.
Everything here must seem so strange to him. Machines that create heat without fire, light without flame, cold without ice. I try to imagine seeing it through his eyes—this world of convenience built with forces he’s never encountered.
I continue preparing the food—peeling potatoes, opening cans, checking the timer. The routine tasks ground me, keeping my mind away from images of Sereven’s betrayal, and focused on the reality of creating a meal for us both.
“This is important to you.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Christmas dinner? I guess so … in a way, but not how it is for most people. It’s supposed to be about family. Coming together and being grateful for what you have.” My hands still on the potato peeler. “I’ve never actually cooked it for anyone else before.”
The realization surprises me. All those years of buying groceries for it, of planning meals I’d eat alone while watching holiday movies. Years of creating the illusion of celebration for an audience of one.
Warm hands cover mine, startling me. I blink, and refocus, to discover Sacha beside me, dark eyes warmer than I’ve ever seen them. “Then this is new for both of us.”
The tension in his shoulders has eased slightly, and I wonder if this ordinary domestic scene is providing the same anchor for him as it is for me. Something peaceful and present to hold onto after visiting such dark memories.
I smile, and he dips his head to brush his lips over mine before stepping away again. Heat rises in my cheeks, and I force myself to keep my attention on the tasks at hand. When I boil the potatoes, he asks me why. When I open the canned cranberry sauce, his eyebrows raise slightly.
“Everything in this world seems designed for speed.”
“Sometimes I think we’ve traded our souls for convenience,” I tell him, mashing the potatoes with more force than necessary. “Everything fast. Everything easy. Everything disposable.”
“Yet you take as much time preparing this meal as the cooks do in Meridian.”
“Some things are worth doing properly. Even if it’s just for us.”
Especiallybecause it’s just for us. After everything we’ve survived, everything we’ve shared, this quiet moment feels precious.
By the time everything is ready, the sky has darkened outside, and the apartment is filled with the scent of food. Sacha sets the small table with my mismatched dishes, and somehow tracks down a single candle in a drawer. The Christmas tree lights blink softly in the living room. I set them to amber, so they remind me of the lightstones in Stonehaven.
I pour two glasses of wine, and we sit on opposite sides of the table.
“It’s not quite Mountain Spirit, but you might like it.”
He takes a cautious sip, then nods. “It’s good.”
We eat slowly. Sacha finds the cranberry sauce too sweet, the stuffing unfamiliar but ‘interesting’,yet he eats everything onhis plate. I watch as he approaches each unfamiliar item with focused attention, processing flavors and textures and gives his thoughts on each one.
“The potato preparation is similar to what we use in Meridian. Though the seasoning is different.”
“What do you season it with?”
“Mountain herbs. Salt from dried lake beds. I don’t believe we have anything as … complex as this.” He gestures at the stuffing. “Many ingredients combined.”
“That’s the idea. A little bit of everything coming together. Like family, I guess. Different pieces that somehow make sense.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. Here we are, two people from different worlds, sharing a meal meant to celebrate family, after having a conversation about a family torn apart by the worst possible betrayal.
But somehow, in this moment, it works.Wework.
After dinner, I clear the table, stacking plates and gathering silverware. Sacha moves to help, and when I wave him toward the living room, he gives me a look that stops the words before I utter them.
“I can wash dishes, Mel’shira.”
“I know, but?—”
“Show me how this works.” He gestures toward the sink. “I’ve washed dishes before. Just not with …” He pauses, studying the various bottles lined up along the counter. “All of this.”
