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Shafts of moonlight fall into the pot of soup, almost as if the goddess is seasoning it. Yuri asks her forgiveness for trespassing in the monastery; proper students aren’t supposed to use the dining hall at night, let alone Abyssians auditing a few classes. Whatever—he brought his own ingredients. This kitchen just has a better stove and more room.
He tastes the broth and wrinkles his nose. Moonlight isn’t enough to make up for the older vegetables. He drums his fingers on the counter before opening the cupboard and swiping a pouch. Spices are too expensive, but he hates compromising between filling his people’s stomachs and their souls.
Just as Yuri sprinkles the spice in the pot, the door opens, quietly enough for another to miss. He stuffs the pouch in his pocket and turns to find Claude standing in the doorway. They both freeze for the second a mental calculation takes: neither of them could rat out the other without betraying themselves. Yuri’s smirk meets Claude’s easy smile.
Claude closes the door. “So, who’re you poisoning?”
Nobody, this time. Not that Yuri would confirm otherwise. For all Claude trades his poison recipes for information, none of them give someone more than a stomachache. Yuri can’t tell if Claude knows a nobleman Yuri served tea to was found dead. He can’t tell what Claude would do if he did.
Yuri can’t stand not being able to tell things.
“I’ll leave that up to your imagination,” he says.
Claude saunters over and sniffs the air. “Smells pretty good. At least they won’t regret their final meal.”
“I happen to be a better cook than most of the staff. No offense to them.”
“I’ll try not to be offended on their behalf,” Claude says. He steps over to the cupboard from which Yuri filched the seasoning.
“So, who’re you poisoning?”
“Would you believe I’m just getting a snack? The cooks here never make my faves.” Claude opens the cupboard and mutters into it. “The worst part of being awake all night is having homesickness and a grumbly tummy.”
Something about his tone, or his pursed lips, or the way his hand pauses on the cupboard door… Yuri would believe it. Maybe. It’s none of his business.
“So, what should we serve at the feast?” Claude asks.
“Feast?” His soup hardly qualifies.
“The feast we’re hosting before the White Heron Cup. You are going to be there, aren’t you?”
Yuri grimaces. The Blue Lions of a past year goaded him into dancing in front of everyone, as one of the few charming students. “Sure, if I have time. What’s the feast for? Giving the other dancers food poisoning?”
“Nah, I have faith in Ignatz. The White Heron Cup won’t exactly be a bloodbath. A perfect time to build some friendly camaraderie, don’t you think?”
Claude picks up a bottle and spins it in his hand like an arrow. His claims check out; the other nobles at the academy don’t host events just to recruit people from different houses, or cycle through dining hall seats as if on a schedule, or reach a hand out to the denizens of Abyss. It’s too lofty for Yuri. He can’t even feed his own people with one pot of soup, but he gets the feeling Claude would try to sit rival gangs down, if he could.
The steam curls, warm, around Yuri’s jaw. His teeth chatter.
“It’s good of you to at least try to bring everyone together. Goddess knows this world needs it,” he says as he stirs his soup. Claude watches him. “What?”
“You’ll have to forgive me. I’m used to everything you say having a haze of insincerity.”
“I guess it’s up to you to decide if you’ve pierced it, then.”
“I guess so.” Claude leans against the counter. “My best guess? Whoever you’re cooking for would say you’re a big softie. No—they probably wouldn’t dare. But they’re thinking it.”
It’s Yuri’s turn to stare. The soup starts to boil, and he shifts it partway off the flame before it can spill over.
“They can think what they want,” he says.