Page 33 of Reluctant Wizard

“I would—thanks.”

When she returned, a steaming bowl of soup awaited her on the low table before the couch, which she realized had been entirely cleared of all but her spirit bottle. Bending over the bowl, she sniffed. Tomato soup with herbs. “When did you make soup?”

“I woke up a few hours ago and didn’t want to leave you alone, so I made myself useful,” Cillian answered from the kitchen. “Would you like a grilled cheese sandwich, too?”

Alise swallowed her reflexive refusal. A grilled cheese sandwich sounded amazing and she rationalized to herself that Cillian would just persist, so she might as well give in. “Yes, please.” She swallowed a spoonful of soup, creamy, rich, and tasting of a summer garden. Perfect for a winter afternoon.

“How did you make soup?” it occurred to her to ask.

“Really you can make anything with a couple of fire elementals and some ingenuity,” he answered, a smile in his voice. “I know Convocation Academy feeds us as well as they can, but cooking for a thousand people poses certain restrictions. I like my own cooking better. And working with my hands gives me time and peace to think.” His voice broke just a little at the end and Alise knew instantly what he’d been mulling over.

Working with his hands—like whoever had made the quilt over her lap. “Who made this quilt?” she asked.

“My grandmother Harahel,” he answered unperturbed by the apparent change of subject. He appeared before her, holding out a tray with a golden-crisp sandwich oozing pale cheese on plate. Not a plate that matched the one he’d broken. In truth, none of his dishes matched, a bit of randomness she found endearing. With a deft maneuver, Cillian palmed her half-full bowl of soup, slipped it onto the tray next to the sandwich, and handed her the whole thing. “Feel free to dip,” he said with a cheery smile that belied his earlier tone. “That’s the best way.”

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Already did.” He’d gone back to the kitchen, puttering around.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep on you,” she said, wanting to address that particular elephant in the room, anyway.

“I fell asleep, too. As my aching back can attest, you are correct that my couch is no good for sleeping.”

“I’m sorry.” Stricken, she stared at the sandwich, the soup, the quilt he’d covered her with. He was a lovely, caring person and she was… utterly selfish.

“That’s twice you apologized for something you didn’t have to be sorry for even once. Don’t you like your sandwich? You haven’t even tried it. With or without dunking.”

He sounded so disappointed she nearly laughed. Biting into the sandwich, she groaned at the buttery richness, the savory cheese in creamy contrast to the perfectly crisped bread. Deciding to take his advice, she dunked the next bite, finding the tart-sweetness of the tomato soup the perfect complement. “Dark arts this is delicious,” she said when she could.

“I’m glad.” Cillian set a mug of tea on the table before her, then settled into his reading chair, cradling a mug of his own.

She sniffed the steam from her tea, suspicious. “More sleepy tea?”

“Regular herbal tea,” he corrected.

“I prefer coffee.”

“I’m aware. I’m also aware that it’s already afternoon and you don’t need to be drinking coffee at this time of day.”

“Yes, Maman,” she quipped, but he only sipped his tea, unbothered.

“You would like my grandmother Harahel,” he said, returning to the earlier conversational topic without a beat, ignoring the remaining elephants still milling invisibly about the room. “She can tell you the author and title of any book ever written, from even a muddied or flat incorrect plot summary and a vague description of the cover, and she can cook a five-course meal for a dozen people on a moment’s notice.”

“And she quilts,” Alise noted.

“Yes. All kinds of needlework, plus she gardens. She grew the herbs you taste in the soup. She dries and sends to me, out of concern that I won’t eat well in the wasteland of Convocation Center.”

“Funny—I’ve never heard of anyone regarding Convocation Center as a wasteland. Rather the reverse.” Everyone wanted to be in Convocation Center, with all its delights and entertainments. It was called the center for a reason.

Cillian gave her a droll look. “It depends on one’s perspective, yes? Where you place your priorities, what your values are. My family understands my need to be here, to work in the Convocation archives, but they also think I’m a bit daft. After all, House Harahel has an extensive library—in some aspects, more complete than here—plus beautiful countryside, excellent food, stimulating company, and a refreshing dearth of corrupt politics.”

Put that way, she could see the point. “I would never describe House Elal that way. Any of those ways.”

“No? I’ve heard Elal is a dramatic landscape, though I’ve never been, and the house itself an architectural marvel.”

She supposed both things were true. “Dramatic is probably a good word for it, with the Knifeblade Mountains visible from anywhere in Elal—you always know where west is—and then there’s the long, rocky coastline. The house itself, however, is in a fairly flat valley, in the bend of a river and ‘architectural marvel’ gives it too much credit. It’s a monstrosity of styles, created by generations of arrogant Elals more determined to put their stamp on it than behave in a rational manner.”

Cillian laughed, surprising her, since she hadn’t intended that to be funny. “You have an affection for it though. I can hear it in your voice.”

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