Work Text:
Alphinaud Leveilleur stood in the Rising Stones kitchens, looking all the world like a renowned chef. His clothes, different from his usual fare in that they were a simple tunic and trousers, were protected by a blindingly white apron, still bearing the crisp lines of being folded for purchase. He had even purchased the towering cap that chefs wore to complete the look. It was all part of his plan, you see; for today was an incredibly special day.
It was the Warrior of Light’s nameday.
Rosanna was, despite her reputation as the most powerful fighter on the star, a being of soft nature and sweet whimsy. The outfit by itself would be enough to delight her, but he was certain he could send the sweet miqo’te to the moon if he also presented her a cake , requisite frosting and candles included while wearing it. Yes, his plan was utterly perfect.
If only he could quite figure out how to turn the stove on.
It’s not like he’d never cooked before. Just that such times had mostly been over a campfire, stirring whatever stew Rosanna had put together, or the few times Estinien had taught him how to grill fish and dodo meat on tall sticks stripped of bark to make skewers. But he was a scholar for Twelve’s sake, and he had the greatest tool of the kitchen he could hope to have: Rosanna’s much beloved cookbook. The tome was several inches thick of cream colored parchment, bound in a sturdy leather cover. A few of the pages bore thin stains, likely from being thumbed through with fingers dabbed with sauces or batters. This was actually the third such tome, bearing notes in her slanted but otherwise neat handwriting. He could still remember the book binder’s expression when he’d asked for the book to be bound backwards.
This was not figuring out the stove, was it?
It was one of the Ironworks best sellers, and absolutely no one was surprised when Biggs and Wedge had come to install it, replacing the old behemoth that had been there before the Scions had taken over the space as their headquarters. Rosanna had been right cross about the old one for ages, complaining about uneven heating and broken burners just to name two. This new one had brass knobs that gleamed dully under the lamps, with numbers carefully painted on and little diagrams painted on the panel. Over the center knob was a square that looked a bit like the oven’s door. That was probably it then.
He turned the knob, hearing a click and then a soft whoosh , signaling that it was beginning to warm. Good. Next, he opened the cookbook, flipping through it to find a cake that would be easy for a novice. There were copious notes on every recipe, and Alphinaud could not help but smile at the almost conversational tone of them. One recipe stood out, namely due to the short list of ingredients. Angel Food Cake . There was a recipe for whipped cream and rolanberry sauce on the next page, with a cheery note stating it was the perfect pairing with the cake. It was quite the boon to him that his dearest Warrior was so very thorough in her favored hobby.
He grabbed the easiest ingredients first; sugar and flour, containers prominently labeled. A large brown glass jug of dark liquid was next, labeled ‘vanilla’. It sloshed as he lifted it onto the table, relasing just a hint of fragrance, bourbon and vanilla. The whites of a dozen eggs…Alphinaud frowned at that. He knew what an egg looked like of course, but…what did it mean by the ‘whites’? And what on earth was beeswing? He would have to read the recipe instructions and hope Rosanna had recorded such details.
He could figure this out. He just needed to follow the recipe exactly. Besides, most of the Scions were out and about, and he’d tasked Thancred and G’raha specifically with keeping Rosanna occupied most of the day.
He checked the icebox and faced his first hurdle. There were only two types of eggs currently inside. Gagana eggs, behemoths with off white shells that he’d seen the cooks use a hammer to crack open. Aside from there not being a dozen, he could not fathom that these were the eggs the recipe called for. The second set of eggs were tiny, delicate things, the eggs of a puk, or at least he assumed so. There was a note to replace the stock of chicken and apkallu eggs stuck to the door.
Right. Well, he would use the puk eggs then. The recipe called for separating the yolks from the whites, which would have been great to read before he had cracked the first egg into the bowl. He stared down at the saturated yellow yolk, and the milky goop surrounding it. Was he meant to just…scoop it out? Perhaps it would be easier to put all the eggs in at once and scoop the yolks out in one mass. He couldn’t recall Rosanna ever doing something like that though…
This would be easier if Tataru were around to ask questions, but the Lalafell had gone to find a suitable present. F’lhammin had taken the day off to visit with old acquaintances. The Doman refugees who had remained in Mor Dhona were preparing for the party later in the evening. He would have to make his best guess then.
Twenty minutes later Alphinaud found himself cursing as the fifth egg yolk finally broke, spreading irreversibly through the whites. Neither spoon nor fork were enough to remove it unscathed. He scowled at the bowl, brows drawn in consternation. Was it even really necessary to separate them? He’d seen Rosanna and Tataru both using the whole of the egg to make a cake. But they both were very exacting with their recipes, so then it must be important, right?
“Alphinaud!” Alisaie’s voice called from the hallway, “Where are you stinky head?”
“In here!” he called. Moon white hair popped through the door, his twin making a face at his project as she came fully into the room.
“What in the seventh hell are you doing?”
“If you must know” he huffed, “I am making Rosanna a nameday cake.”
Alisaie snorted. “You don’t know the first thing about making a cake.”
“Fortunately, my dearest Rosanna is a meticulous notekeep.”
“Is that why you only have eggs in the bowl?”
He scowled at her, thinking for a moment of how satisfying it would be to dump the eggs on his sister’s head. But she would absolutely murder him in cold blood, and then where would he be? Verraised, probably, but Alisaie would definitely let him bleed on the floor a little.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to, oh, I don’t know, just put some frosting on yourself?”
He sputtered, cursing at his sister’s impish grin. “That is not a presentable gift!”
“Yeah, no shit, but can you imagine her face? I’d pay to see what expression she made.”
Alphinaud shook his head, fighting down a smile. Rosanna was by no means a prude, but she was easily flustered and it was easy to tease her. Still, he was trying to accomplish something.
“Look, help me would you? Instead of being a complete menace to society, as is your wont.”
“Fine, fine, but I’m taking half the credit!”
***
“Okay so grind the sugar in the mortar done. What else?”
Alphinaud skimmed the recipe. They had set the eggs aside for the moment, especially since he’d already wasted half of them. He might have to go to the market before they could finish, but at least everything else could be finished first.
“Separate one cup of the sugar and set aside.”
“Err. How much did we need in the first place?”
He grimaced. He should’ve read through the entire recipe first. “Um, one and three quarters?”
A glance at the wooden bowl Alisaie held was enough to tell him she had too much. Alisaie scratched her ear, staring at the bowl as well. “I think we have too much.”
“W-well, maybe we can just measure out what we need into another bowl.”
“Do we just use, like, a regular cup?”
Alphinaud opened, and then closed his mouth. He had no idea. The flour also needed measuring, and then ‘sifting’ which involved a fine mesh. The counter was covered in a fine dusting of white from his attempt at the task. And to make things worse—
“Alisaie, do you know what ‘beeswing’ is?”
“Beeswing? Is that some manner of alchemy ingredient?”
He shrugged, looking at the recipe again. He had determined it was some manner of powder, since the measurement called for one and one half teaspoon of it. But that was about it. Alisaie frowned, fist pressed to her chin as she thought.
“I think we need more help.”
They found Urianger first, tucked into a dusty corner with a book. The older elezen looked up with surprise, though whether it was the fact of the pair approaching or their flour covered attire, Alphinaud couldn’t guess.
“What doth bring me the pleasure of thy company?” he asked.
“Do you know anything about baking?”
Urianger shook his head. “While I hath read some on the subject, twould be a lie to say I have any proficiency in the matter.”
The twins sighed. Alphinaud tried a different angle.
“Do you know what ‘beeswing’ is then?”
He hummed in thought. “If I recall, tis a substance formed from fermented grapes when chilled. Tis dried and ground into powder, and provides firmness to the whites of eggs.”
“Ah hah!” Alisaie declared. “That’s one clue down. Now if only we knew what to do about the eggs.”
“Might I make a suggestion?” Urianger said, smiling gently. The twins looked at him eagerly. “Y’shtola is also rather knowledgeable about the kitchen arts. Master Matoya was most thorough in her schooling.”
“Really!?” they asked simultaneously. Urianger nodded.
“Indeed. Tis not something she hath much reason to bring up.”
They were off again, this time to Dawn’s Respite. Y’shtola was painting some manner of ceramic with a delicate brush loaded with vibrant blue paint. The miqo’te’s ears turned in their direction though she did not look their way.
“Give me a moment, if you please,” she said, finishing the strokes she was making.
“What’s that?” Alisaie blurted. It was an odd shape, and even Alphinaud could not quite figure out what it was.
“Rosanna’s gift.” She set aside the object and the brush, looking between the pair. “Now, what did you need?”
Alphinaud quickly explained their conundrum with the eggs and the measurements. Y’shtola listened attentively, before nodding sagely. “There should be special cups to measure with among the utensils. They’ll have numbers on them to denote how much volume they can hold. Though frankly I’m surprised that a culinarian of Rosie’s skill doesn’t use a scale.”
“A scale?” Alisaie asked, frowning. “Like when weighing gold?”
“Aye, something to that effect. Now,” the black mage stood, smoothing the front of her dress, “let’s see about these eggs, hm?”
***
Three sets of eyes stared at the broken yolks spreading throughout the egg whites. Pieces of egg shells floated within like bastard versions of stars in a transparent sky. Alphinaud was beginning to doubt whether this was doable. Rosie could make a cake without even looking at the recipe. So could Tataru. Krile had even made cookies for them on more than one occasion. It certainly hadn’t looked hard when they did it…
“I think,” Y’shtola said tonelessly, “that I am starting to understand how our dear Warrior feels when confronted with learning magic.”
The twins nodded together, both thinking of the times they had tried to teach Rosie magic. While she could manage her aether well, it was primarily through her body where it augmented her martial skills. But casting a proper spell had been beyond her. If it had to go further than the length of her weapon she simply couldn’t manage it.
Alphinaud still remembered one sparring session, where she had backflipped out of her casting stance, spell guttering out like a candle in high wind, and then crashed into a wall. That had been a rather interesting series of injuries to explain.
“Well, pull out some more eggs, so we can try again.” Y’shtola sighed.
Alphinaud winced. “Um, about that. There uh, isn’t anymore?”
The miqo’te raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you asking or telling?”
He rubbed his neck, avoiding her stare as a flush crept up his ears. “Let’s just go and see if the market has any.”
The afternoon had Mor Dhona bustling, and the market outside of the House of Splendors even moreso. The produce trader was haggling over some manner of vegetable with an adventurer. A close inspection of the stall revealed no eggs. Still, there was a chance they just weren’t tabled due to their fragile nature.
“Excuse me sir! Excuse me!” Alphinaud called, trying to get the man’s attention. But the noise was certainly burying him, even at this distance.
“Gods, and I thought Sapphire Avenue was busy!” Alisaie shouted.
“We won’t get anywhere like this!” Y’shtola added on. The miqo’te was covering her ears. “I’m going to go inside and see if the House’s kitchens can spare anything!”
“Ask how to separate the eggs!” Alisaie yelled. Y’shtola nodded before fleeing to what were undoubtedly quieter environs.
Alphinaud sighed, looking for a way to get closer to the shopkeep. He had taken a step when a heavy hand came down on his shoulders, startling a yelp out of him.
Estinien chortled, steadying him with a gentle squeeze of both shoulders. “Alphinaud! I thought you had a party to plan!”
Shoulders sank as Alphinaud considered the nearly two hours he’d spent in a hot kitchen with nothing to show for it yet.
“I am out of eggs!”
Estinien raised a brow. “Is that right?” The dragoon turned, and with a bellow that certainly must have frightened the scales off dragons in the past, called for the shopkeep’s attention.
The whole market seemed to go quiet, a cascade of bewildered faces looking for the source of the noise.
“Aye, I think it’s quiet enough now to get your eggs,” Estinien said casually. The twins exchanged glances, before rushing forward…
…and coming up empty.
“Seven hells!” Alisaie hissed, slumping into a bench further down the road. Estinien shrugged apologetically, patting them both on the shoulders.
“Now, now, why don’t one of you teleport to Foundation or Gridania? Or I suppose I could hunt for a replacement, if that will help?”
Alisaie groaned. “We’ve been at this for almost two bells and we’ve barely even got the ingredients right! Nevermind putting it all together for an actual cake!”
“Besides,” Alphinaud added, “if hunting would help, I’d have simply used the Gagana eggs in the icebox.”
Estinien cackled. “So use that then.”
Alphinaud blinked up at him. “What?”
Estinien raised a brow. “Come now, can you not simply portion what you need? The remains can be put back in the icebox if you cover it.”
The twins stared at him open mouthed before turning back and talking quickly.
“Gods, could we do that?”
“How many eggs is a gagana egg even worth?”
“If we ask the cooks in the House of Splendors they might know!”
“How the hells are we going to separate it?”
“Oh, one step at a time would you!?”
Mission set, they ran back up the hill, nearly bowling over poor Y’shtola as she was coming out.
Anxiety settled like a nest of snakes in Alphinaud’s stomach. The gagana egg was even bigger than he’d realized. It was a fulm tall and weighed at least seven ponzes. Y’shtola had relayed to them the method to separate the eggs, but Alphinaud wasn’t sure it would apply to…this. The kitchens of the House had not had any spare eggs, and when he had at last revealed the gagana eggs to the miqo’te she had stared for several moments before walking out of the kitchen in complete silence.
Now, he stood before the egg with a wooden hammer, Alisaie steadfastly beside him with a large bowl and a ladle.
“Okay, so, maybe…maybe if we make a hole we can just like, catch all the white and no yolk?” Alisaie suggested, voice high and tight with repressed nerves.
“Uh,” he started, trying to think if that would actually work.
The gagana egg was worth maybe two dozen eggs. Or was it four dozen? Gods he should’ve just gone to another market like Estinien had suggested. Why hadn’t he thought to do that? But it was too late now. The behemoth of an egg sat upon the counter, taunting him. Challenging him. He could make this work. Rosie would definitely be impressed that he managed to make a cake with a gagana egg. He could probably make several cakes. Layers, even. With rolanberry jam in between and cream, and little chopped pieces of fruit. That would delight her.
But first he had to conquer this gods damned egg.
“Get a second bowl, just in case.”
There was egg everywhere. On his clothes. On Alisaie’s clothes. On the floor and counter. The whites had come spilling out of the egg like a font, and the first bowl just hadn’t been big enough. And then they’d had to scramble for a second, and a third, and the overflow had slopped to the floor and sent them both sprawling. And then a bit of yellow had started to spill through and Alisaie had squealed (“the yolk!”) and had managed to grab a pot just in time to catch it. The sound with which it had slopped into the pot would haunt his nightmares. Alphinaud would have to make it up to F’lhammin and Tataru later. He would clean it up himself, but he was pretty sure they would be finding egg in the various nooks and crannies for the next thirty summers.
“Okay, so, uh, what now?” Alisaie asked. They were sitting on a relatively dry section of the floor, backs against the cabinets as they stared at the bowls of egg whites and the comically large yolk.
“Measuring?” he replied. He wasn’t sure where the cookbook had gone, hoping that it too was not a victim of the Egg of Days.
“Right. Did we ever look for the measuring cups?”
The sound his head made as he banged it into the cabinet echoed through the horrendous quiet. “The fucking—! The cups! Gods! Is there no hope for us?”
Alisaie took a deep breath and grabbed him by the shoulders, expression serious. “Do not give into despair brother! We can conquer this together!”
She pulled up her sleeves, and with more grace than she had any right to when covered with flour and egg, jumped to her feet. She pulled him up next, and, he had to admit, her sudden verve was infectious.
“Okay, first thing, we must plan our movements carefully. One slip and we’re absolutely done for.”
He nodded. “Indeed. Slow and steady wins the day.”
“We must locate the measuring cups, and the cookbook.”
The cookbook was, thank all the gods of every star in creation, unscathed. He had wisely placed it back on the shelf that was behind the kitchen door when they’d headed to the market. A yelp was followed by a loud clatter from behind him, and he turned just in time to see Alisaie clinging to the sink, several drawers in various states of openness.
“I’m good!” she declared.
He shook his head, thumbing through the book until he’d found the recipe. If you’d asked him three bells ago if a cake with six ingredients would be harder to master than an entirely new class and way of healing, he’d have said no. But as his twin scrabbled through cupboards and drawers without losing her footing on eggs , as he briefly lamented the rolanberry jam and whipped cream that he definitely was not going to get the chance to make, he had to admit: They were the youngest graduates of the Studium and they currently could not manifest a braincell between them.
He flipped back through the book for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. It was all a huge mess, quite literally. If only—
Something near the rear of the book caught his eye. It was a page that had been torn out of another, and pasted to the inside of the back cover. A page that was nothing but notes. A page that had a small doodle of a particular tea cup, carved from crystal, that a certain miqo’te had found in an old storage box, back when they were still at the Waking Sands…
Among the handwritten notes was a scant few sentences describing the teacup.
My little teacup has finally found its purpose! It makes the perfect scoop! I used it to bake today and oh, the little muffins came out the absolute best!
“Alisaie! I think I know what we’re looking for!”
“Well don’t just stand there, tell me where to look!”
A half bell later and the twins stared down at the pan, full of pale goop. The recipe had described the process of whipping the egg whites decently enough, stirring vigorously with a whisk ‘until frothy’, upon which they were to add the sugar and the beeswing, and then stir it some more ‘until soft peaks form’. Neither of them knew what that meant, but Alisaie’s arms had given out when it got to the consistency of thickened cream. Alphinuad had managed to sift the flour and fold it in, though he was certain there was more flour on him than in the batter. They could not agree on what a tube pan was, and so had chosen a deep, square pan in hopes that it would still work.
“Is there anything else we need to do?” Alisaie asked warily. The tiniest of bubbles popped on the surface of the batter.
Alphinaud sucked in a breath, and let it out slowly through his nose. This was it. The final step. He opened the cookbook and checked the recipe one final time.
“It says to bake it at 325 degrees for three quarters of a bell.”
They looked at the stove, which had been patiently waiting for four bells. The knob, which Alphinaud only just realized had numbers, was set to 425.
“Shit,” they said simultaneously.
Alisaie examined the dial, turning down to the correct temperature. “So, uh, do we wait or…?”
“I—” Alphinaud ran a hand over his face. “The party is in but another bell, maybe a little longer if something holds them up. We have to put it in now if it’s to be done in time.”
“And there’s still the matter of cleaning up.”
“Which we can do while it bakes.”
“Fair. Alright then,” Alisaie nodded. “Do some calculations. Maybe we can shave off a little time to accommodate.”
He scowled, rapidly trying to run numbers through his head. The problem was that he truly did not know enough about baking to make such calculations. If Y’shtola had remained, then she might have been able to do it, but honestly, he could hardly blame the miqo’te for leaving. He picked it up and shoved it into the oven, the heavy door slamming shut with a bang of finality.
“So how long?” Alisaie asked, eyes wide.
“The full time I suppose.”
“What?”
He hiked his sleeves up, tossed his ruined apron over a chair where he’d long since abandoned the chef’s hat, and grabbed a mop and bucket. “We clean,” he replied, with much more bravado than he felt. “And then? We pick a god and pray.”
‘Two pairs of hands make for light work’ was not a phrase he’d expected to think about today, but Alphinaud truly could not be more thankful to his sister. He’d have probably lost his marbles halfway through without her, and the kitchen certainly would not be clean within half a bell if he’d done it on his own. It was by no means spotless—gods, there was just so much bloody egg—but at least the floor was no longer a hazard.
A few favors for Tataru, F'lhaminn and the other kitchen maids would go a very long way in begging their forgiveness.
“I don't know about you, but I could definitely use a shower!” Alisaie said, stretching until her shoulder cracked. "You should get one in too before the party is supposed to start.”
He pulled up a stool and perched in front of the oven, elbows on knees as he watched the dim view of the cake like a hawk.
“I will. But I just can't risk leaving the cake for too long. Plus, you're supposed to turn it upside down to cool.”
“Upside down? Whoever wrote this recipe must have been smoking somnus or something.”
When he didn't respond, his sister sighed and pulled him off the stool.
“Go wash and make yourself presentable,” she commanded, steering him towards the door.
“But—”
“Obviously I will keep watch and flip the bloody thing upside down.”
“Alisaie, this was supposed to be my gift, I can't just leave it!” He protested. “And besides, you won't have enough time to get ready yourself!”
Alisaie crossed her arms, lifting one brow imperiously. He knew that long suffering look, the one that said he was being silly and she was not going to tolerate it.
“Alphinaud Leveilleur, I am not going to sit here and let you greet your betrothed on her nameday looking like you got into a fight with a slime on the moon.”
“But I—”
She stuck her finger right in his face. “Furthermore! There is such a thing as fashionably late and I have no qualms about using such a tactic to my advantage! Now go! Leave your Cake to me!”
Well. There was certainly nothing to say to that. He made for his room, glad of his decision to wear the tunic and breeches. They were stripped off easily, though he left a mess of flour in his hair and on the bathroom floor. Honestly he half expected to dissolve under the hot water at this point. The soap was heaven to his senses, the fresh scent of the sea filling the steaming room. He'd smelled nothing but flour and eggs for bells, and he scrubbed the soap all throughout his hair and over every inch of skin.
Twenty minutes later he was toweling off his hair when he heard a knock on the door.
“Alphinaud, your cake is uh, doing its handstand,” Alisaie said flatly.
“Thank you?” He replied, frowning slightly. He'd expected a more lively joke than that. He reached for their connection as twins, and it crackled to life as he dried himself off. Except Alisaie was pulling away before the connection had even reached its strength and rather deliberately at that.
“Ah, fuck,” his sister whispered and then she was gone, rapid footsteps carrying her down the hall.
***
The party had started without him. He could hear the music, the cheers, the chatter at the end of the hall, celebrating the birth of the Savior of the Star. He couldn't bring himself to go out there. Not as he stared at the ruinous mess before him. The cake had burned. It was dense as a brick. It was stuck in the pan. He'd managed to get a piece out and retched, the taste of egg overwhelming everything else but how dry it was.
I don't think I'll be eating eggs for awhile,
he thought to himself. At least Alisaie had gone out and bought a proper cake.
Damn it all.
His chest hurt, as did his stomach. Hot tears threatened to march down his cheeks, and he had half a mind to let them, if only because it might improve the taste of the blasted cake. He could not give her this. He couldn't give his dearest this utter failure—
“Alphiiiiiiie!” A familiar voice called from the hall. There was no doubt of who it could be, as Rosanna was the only one who could call him such a silly nickname. “Alphinaaaauuuud, carbuncle of my heart!”
Gods, he needed to hide the cake. Or perhaps slip out the adjacent door to the other hallway so that he could come around and meet her, rather than risk she look in here.
“Wherefore art thou Alphinaud? Deny me not thy presence, and be but sworn my love!”
He couldn't help it. He laughed, a loud bark wet with tears. He could envision the way her ears would turn at the sound, eyes bright with joy at having discovered his hiding place. He scrubbed at his face, turning in time to see her come through the door. Her long, sky blue hair had been loosely curled so that they bounced around her like a cloud. Her rum brown skin seemed to have collected even more freckles than she had the day before, and her pretty hazel eyes were indeed filled with delight.
“Someone's been listening to Urianger reciting old stage plays,” he teased, moving to hide the cake as she wrapped her arms around him.
“Oh yes! You must admit, he is very dramatic.”
“That I cannot deny. Especially when he ropes Thancred into it.”
Pale blue ears wiggled as she laughed. Her tail wrapped around his leg as she buried her face in his shirt. Gods. She was perfection, and the cake-turned-Blasphemy on the counter was definitely not. And she was purring. It buzzed through his chest as he wrapped his arms around her, easing his wounded feelings even as his heart raced.
She looked up, hazel eyes searching his face and the joy wavered. She could probably tell he'd been crying, what with her standing so close. “Alphinaud? You okay?”
“I—” he hesitated. Even after all this time he did not like admitting failure. She tilted her head, brows drawn in worry. If he lied, or worse, refused to answer, she was going to think about it the rest of the night. Worry about him. When it was her nameday. He sighed, deflating as he stepped aside to show the ruined pan.
“Oh!” She squeaked, hand flying to cover her mouth in surprise. “W-what happened here?”
“I, um, tried to make you a cake.”
“I see!”
He winced, waiting for the laugh, or the ridicule. Gods, why did he think he could just make a cake without instruction?
“What were you going for?”
What?
She was examining it. Turning the pan this way and that, testing the weight. It was…professional.
“What kind of cake were you trying to make?” She asked again.
“An angel food cake. From your recipe book.”
She looked at him eyes wide. “Oh, by the Twelve, Alphie, that cake is hard!”
He blinked. “It only has six ingredients.”
Rosie shook her head, smiling reassuringly. “Yes, but it is so finicky! You have to do everything juuuuust right for it to work! So many steps! You have to have the right kind of flour, the right amount of sugar, the right size of eggs, whip the egg whites just so.”
“There’s more than one kind of flour?”
She laughed, but it wasn’t mocking in the least. “Yes, silly! But of course I wouldn’t expect you to know. We don’t keep too many kinds in here anyway.”
He felt even sillier now. It had never even occurred to him that there would be different kinds of flour . Rosanna reached up and tugged on a lock of his hair, smiling when she had his attention.
“You know I still get it wrong sometimes myself.”
“Y-you do?” he asked, taken aback.
“Yes!”
All the air left him in a huff. He'd picked a recipe that even she didn't get right consistently. A professional culinarian that had even helped in the Studium's research. Gods.
Rosanna wrapped her arms around him again, smiling up at him. He sighed, leaning forward to rest his forehead on hers. The kitchen still smelled faintly of eggs. But she smelled like sunshine and oranges.
“That was really sweet of you,” she murmured.
“That I made you a brick?”
Her tail whipped his leg, a completely ineffective punishment. “No, you sassy arse, it was sweet that you wanted—and tried—to make me a cake!”
He threaded his fingers into her hair, scratching gently at the base of one ear. She hummed in pleasure, leaning into him more.
“Well, I suppose I should say I'm glad you appreciate my gesture.”
“Yes, you should.”
He snorted. “But, unfortunately it means you will have to wait for a proper nameday gift.”
She leaned away, letting out an aggrieved sigh and putting on an impressive pout, the picture of a spurned lady. “If I must wait, then I suppose there's nothing else to do but to do it! Tis utter cruelty you subject me to though, I must say.”
He chuckled, cupping her face with his other hand and leaning in to kiss her. It was slow and languid, and she practically melted against him.
And then her tail knocked the cake pan over.
“Gods,” he chuckled, “get control of that thing will you?”
“Tis a completely incorrigible thing I tell you!” She replied in mock exasperation.
The sound of the party echoed louder down the hall.
“Hey!” someone—Thancred or Estinien perhaps, he couldn't quite tell over the noise—hollered, “there's supposed to be a nameday girl out here!”
“Oh dear, it appears I am missed.” Rosie held out a hand, grinning up at him. “Wilt thou be my escort, good ser?”
He smiled and held out his arm. “Twould be my deepest pleasure, dear lady.”
As they walked down the hall, she glanced up at him, expression curious. “So, am I gonna get the story, or will I have to bully it out of Alisaie?”
Alphinaud groaned, knowing it would get wheedled out of him either way. “Well, I suppose it is your nameday.”
He supposed the little chirp of joy she let out was worth the embarrassment.