Chapter 24
We entered the cottage. It was a comfortable space with couches covered in soft leather and worn, wooden rocking chairs. Each piece seemed as if memories were embedded in its surface—as well as in the walls and floors around them. The ceiling beams and staircase were made of a rich mahogany wood. Almost every table was filled with vases of flowers. Paintings of people and pastoral scenes covered the walls. On the kitchen counter, an assortment of vegetables and herbs were laid out. In the large stone fireplace, a bed of coals flickered, and a grate sat over the coals where long strips of meat were sizzling.
An old woman sat near the fire with hands outstretched.
“Grandamere,” Kull said, “I would like you to meet Olive.”
The woman cocked her head, but her eyes didn’t seem to focus on me.
“She’s almost blind,” Kull whispered to me.
“Blind, yes,” she said, “deaf, no. And my sense of taste is quite keen, also, which is why you should take care of the broth as soon as possible.”
“You’re cooking something?” I asked.
“Yes,” Kull said as he placed the armful of wood near the fire, then grabbed a white shirt off a couch and pulled it over his head.
Part of me lamented his decision to wear a shirt.
“We’re making dyresteg,” he said. “It’s an old traditional dish that I’ve cooked with Grandamere many times. I still have yet to get it right.”
“He’s improving,” she said. “Last year’s was nearly there. Still need to work on getting the bitter out of the roux.”
“It will be perfect this year,” Kull said.
“We will see. Still time yet to improve it. Perhaps the girl can help you this time, yes?”
He turned to me. “Would you like to help?”
“Me?” I glanced around the room. Didn’t we need to go and save the world first? “How long will it take?”
“Not long. You may help me prepare the vegetables if you wish.”
“All right, I guess. I’m not much of a cook.” Why did I say that?
I followed Kull to the island counter where he gave me a butcher knife and instructed me in cutting the vegetables.
“Make sure to cut them evenly and the same size.”
As he chopped a potato-like root plant, I did my best to keep my eyes on the food and not on the way the muscles moved in his arms as he cut the vegetable.
“Would you like to try?”
“Sure.”
He held the knife out, and I reached for it. My fingertips brushed his as I took the handle, and my heart rate shot up. Heat rose into my cheeks and made my chest tighten. I wanted to look away from him but found that some compulsion had come over me. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Finally, he slowly moved his hand away from mine, and I focused on the vegetables.
I began cutting, and after I’d established a rhythm of slicing them lengthwise and keeping them the same size, he placed his hand on my back. Heat rolled through me at his touch.
He leaned close. “Perfectly done,” he said.
“Thanks,” I managed.
He walked away to attend to his grandmother by the hearth. I stayed focused on the vegetables. Heaven help me, his presence was doing all sorts of crazy things to my head, and I shamefully enjoyed every second of it.
“Heat it up, but do not let it boil,” Kull’s grandmother said. “You must get the temperature right, or else it will become bitter. Now, we must prepare the meat. Where are the skewers?”
It all seemed surreal, as if I’d stepped into another time. Worry nagged at the back of my mind—we needed to find the bloodthorn and stop him—yet that world seemed so far away, like a dream I barely remembered.
Kull took Grandamere’s hands in his and guided them to a small shelf beside the hearth. That icy shell covering my heart melted a tiny bit as I watched him help his grandmother. They worked well together, as if they did this sort of thing every day. He guided her hands when she asked and prepared the food as she instructed.
After I’d finished with the vegetables, I stayed where I was, watching as the two worked side-by-side.
“Now add the vegetables,” she said, waving toward me.
I brought the platter to the hearth where they’d placed a cast-iron pot atop the coals. I added the vegetables, careful not to let the broth splash me.
“Good,” Grandamere said. “Now let it simmer down, then add the roux.”
We waited, Kull stirring the broth now and again as the two carried on a conversation. I’d nearly forgotten why I’d come here in the first place. At some point, I’d have to get around to broaching the subject of Kull reclaiming the crown and tracking down the bloodthorn, but not now. Now it seemed time stood still, that there was only him and Grandamere and me, and nothing but good food to worry over.
After the broth was ready, Kull added a small pot of dark roux to the mix.
“Now whisk in the cheese until it dissolves,” said Grandamere. “Is the roast in the warming oven?”
“Yes. Shall I fetch it?”
“Not yet. Slice it first. Then serve it with the sauce and skewers.”
He stood and moved toward the counter.
Grandamere raised a finger. “Thin—”
“Thin slices. Yes, I remember.”
She smiled and leaned her head against the seat cushion. “It’s a good day for dyresteg—the leaves coming down with winter still far enough away. We’ll have to serve it with my cider, of course.”
“Has it always been made the way you’re preparing it?”
“Yes. I made it with my grandstefar, and he with his grandsteforældre. Kull is my only kin who still comes down off the mountain to make it with me. Every year, he comes when the weather is right.”
“That’s because I have yet to perfect it,” he said from the
