Page 144 of Magical Melee
She moved with practiced ease, slicing carrots and tossing them into a large pot on the stove. The pot stirred itself with a wooden spoon, moving in smooth, rhythmic circles. I did a doubletake and smiled.
On the countertop, a doughy mass was kneading on its own, folding and stretching like a baker’s invisible hands were at work.
“Morning, sunshine,” Stella said without turning around, her tone bright and cheerful. “Sleep well?”
“Like a rock,” I said, leaning against the doorway. “What time is it?”
“Time to get cooking,” she replied with a grin. “Thanksgiving waits for no one.”
I smiled and stepped into the kitchen. “Need help?”
“Always,” Stella said, tossing me a peeler. “Start with those potatoes. And while you’re at it, let’s teach you a little something.”
A chill skated over me, and Stella’s smile grew larger. “Good morning, Miora.”
I spun around to see the true caretaker of the cottage and smiled. Since the battle, I hadn’t seen or heard her.
Miora tilted her head and smiled. “Oh, I’m just in time.”
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “A cooking spell?”
Stella winked. “The best kind.”
She placed a small bowl of herbs in front of me. The fresh, earthy aroma filled the air.
“This spell will make peeling those spuds a breeze. Just a simple charm to encourage cooperation between you and the veggies.”
I picked up a sprig of rosemary and held it between my fingers as Stella instructed. “Repeat after me:Culina Octuria.”
“Culina Octuria,” I echoed, feeling a slight tingle as the words left my lips.
“Good,” Stella said, her eyes twinkling. “Now, tap the potato with the sprig.”
I did as she said.
To my amazement, the potato’s skin began to loosen and peel away on its own, curling into neat strips.
Miora clapped her hands together and disappeared into thin air.
I let out a delighted laugh. “That’s incredible!”
“Keep going,” Stella encouraged. “Thanksgiving is a marathon, not a sprint.”
As I worked, Stella continued to hum, occasionally flicking her wand to send a dish or utensil flying to its proper place. The kitchen felt alive with magic and warmth, the perfect balance of old-fashioned cooking and supernatural efficiency.
“Weren’t we going to go to Keegan’s hotel for Thanksgiving?” I asked, turning to watch Stella sip a cup of tea.
“After everything that happened, we decided it was probably safer for us to stay at the cottage.”
My brows lifted. “Safer?”
“Indeed.”
I didn’t press.
By the time Keegan arrived, the cottage was filled with the rich, savory smells of roasting turkey, caramelizing onions, and freshly baked bread.
He walked in carrying a basket of apples.
