Chapter 85 - Interesting.
"So," Cillian mimicked, his tone a perfect imitation of Luxana's cadence, pauses and all. "Why do you smile at me?" he countered, turning his head to meet her gaze. His eyes, usually guarded, now held a spark of curiosity mixed with irritation.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJB8KvsvzUe
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"HAAAH!" Luxana exclaimed, crossing her arms in mock surrender. The sound echoed off the corridor walls, a brief burst of frustration in the otherwise quiet space. "Isn't it weird?" She interjected, taking the lead as she strode forward. Her dress swished softly with each step, the fabric catching the morning light. "To be frank," She paused dramatically, the silence stretching between them like a tangible thing.
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She turned back slightly, her left hand grasping her right arm behind her in a gesture that was both vulnerable and guarded. Her eyes met Cillian's, searching his face for a reaction to her unexpected declaration.
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Luxana stood there, waiting once more for him to close the distance. As he approached, they fell into step together, their footsteps synchronizing unconsciously. "I never really had a real friend before," she continued, her voice softer now. "Especially not one who'd ever tell me they liked me or anything. So-" She paused, gathering her thoughts. "You're my first friend who ever did that!"
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Her smile brightened, outshining even her earlier expressions as she looked at him. "And the first one to ever visit me from time to time. And be there-" Another pause, heavy with meaning. "Be there, regardless of me ever meaning anything to you. And I liked that." The words tumbled out, each one carrying the weight of long-held emotions. "A friend I can truly call a friend, and someone..............who'll be there for me...........even if it's going to fade in a few years from now..............that feeling..........it makes me happy." she exclaimed once more, her smile unwavering as she looked up at the ceiling.
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"It's weird isn't it?" she asked, her eyes closing as she smiled at the ceiling, lost in her own thoughts. Just as she turned to face Cillian-
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The corridor echoed with Cillian's unexpected laughter, his usually stoic demeanor cracking under the weight of Luxana's earnest confession. His chuckles bounced off the stone walls, a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere that had preceded it.
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Luxana's smile faded, replaced by a neutral expression tinged with gravity. Her eyes, once bright with vulnerability, now held a guarded look as she fell silent, continuing to walk alongside her husband.
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"I'm-I'm sorry," Cillian managed, straightening his back as the last remnants of laughter escaped him. The apology hung in the air, neither accepted nor rejected.
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As they approached the kitchen door on their left, Luxana veered diagonally towards it, Cillian following quietly in her wake.
*CREAK*
The massive door groaned open, its ancient hinges protesting the movement. The sound seemed to punctuate the awkward silence that had fallen between them.
Beyond the threshold lay a kitchen that was a fascinating blend of historical fantasy and modern convenience. Thick stone walls surrounded a cavernous space, with high, vaulted ceilings from which hung iron chandeliers, their candles replaced by softly glowing magical orbs. A massive hearth dominated one wall, large enough to roast an entire boar, its flames dancing merrily and casting flickering shadows across the room.
Copper pots and pans of various sizes hung from wrought iron racks, their surfaces gleaming in the magical light. Long wooden tables, scarred and stained from centuries of use, stood ready for food preparation. Yet, nestled among these ancient fixtures were incongruous modern appliances – a sleek refrigerator hummed quietly in one corner, its stainless steel surface a stark contrast to the rough-hewn stone. A high-tech coffee maker sat on a countertop, its digital display blinking softly.
The air was thick with the scent of herbs hanging in bunches from the rafters, mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread. A window, its leaded glass distorting the view, let in streams of morning sunlight that danced across the worn flagstone floor.
This kitchen, with its blend of old and new, seemed an apt metaphor for Cillian and Luxana's relationship – a marriage of tradition and modernity, struggling to find its balance. As they stepped into this realm of culinary magic, the tension between them seemed to shift, the familiar surroundings offering a neutral ground for whatever was to come next in their complex dance of emotions.
As Cillian and Luxana stepped into the kitchen, they were enveloped by a world that bridged centuries of culinary tradition with touches of modern innovation. The vast space before them was a testament to the castle's long history and the gradual evolution of its heart – the kitchen.
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The room was cavernous, with high vaulted ceilings supported by massive oak beams, darkened by centuries of smoke and steam. Hanging from these beams were an array of dried herbs and cured meats, their aromatic scents permeating the air. Iron chandeliers, adorned with softly glowing magical orbs, cast a warm light throughout the space, creating dancing shadows in the corners.
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At the far end of the kitchen stood an enormous hearth, large enough for a person to walk into. Its stone facade was blackened from years of use, and within it, a fire crackled merrily, casting a orange glow across the room. To one side of the hearth, a large spit stood ready for roasting, while iron cauldrons of various sizes hung from hooks, waiting to be filled with stews and soups.
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Long, scarred wooden tables dominated the center of the room, their surfaces bearing the marks of countless knives and the stains of a thousand spills. These tables were clearly the workhorses of the kitchen, where vegetables were chopped, dough was kneaded, and dishes were assembled.
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Along the walls, floor-to-ceiling shelves housed an impressive collection of earthenware pots, gleaming copper pans, and iron skillets. Interspersed among these traditional tools were more modern implements – high-quality chef's knives, silicone spatulas, and even a few electric mixers.
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A massive stone sink stood beneath a leaded glass window, through which streamed dappled morning light. Next to it, incongruously modern, sat a stainless-steel dishwasher, its presence a nod to practicality in this otherwise historical setting.
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In one corner, a walk-in pantry with heavy wooden doors stood slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of sacks of flour, barrels of preserved fruits, and jars of pickled vegetables. Nearby, a sleek refrigerator hummed quietly, its digital temperature display a stark contrast to the ancient stonework surrounding it.
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On a countertop near the entrance, a high-tech coffee maker and an electric kettle sat side by side with a traditional cast-iron teapot, embodying the kitchen's blend of old and new. The air was filled with a mélange of scents – the yeasty aroma of rising bread dough, the sharp tang of fresh herbs, and the rich, earthy smell of vegetables just brought in from the castle gardens.
I stepped into the kitchen, my eyes scanning the room. It was empty, save for the chef - tall, fair-skinned, and likely in his late 40s. His brown hair peeked out from under a pristine chef's hat as he focused intently on chopping leafy vegetables. The loud sound of our entrance caught his attention, and he turned to face us.
"Princess?" he questioned, setting down his knife and wiping his hands on his apron. As he approached us at the door, realization dawned on his face. "What are you doing here, Prin- I mean Queen, Your Majesty," he exclaimed, bowing deeply before rising, his expression a mix of perplexity and concern.
A smile tugged at my lips at the sight of this familiar face. Behind me, Cillian remained stoic, his face betraying no emotion.
James, ever the proper servant, addressed me formally. "May I humbly inquire as to the purpose of Your Gracious and Noble Majesty's presence within these modest confines of a commoner's kitchen, if such a query is not deemed impertinent?" His voice carried a hint of worry, and he offered another respectful nod.
I felt my shoulders tense slightly as I smiled. Everyone in the palace knew me for my silence, my lack of voice. There was no need for explanation. I simply walked past him, my footsteps quiet on the kitchen floor.
As Cillian began to pass the chef, he casually placed his left hand on James' shoulder. "We're handling breakfast. Just sit back & chill," he said nonchalantly.
"Oh," James muttered, turning to watch as Cillian followed in my wake.
I turned to face Cillian, my eyes meeting his in a silent question: Do you have anything in particular you desire to have? I knew he was adept at reading minds, a skill that often proved useful in our wordless communications.
"No desires," he replied, averting his gaze to survey our surroundings, hands tucked into his pockets.
An idea struck me. Since he had no preference, why not make pasta? I thought to myself, twirling around to search through a lower cabinet. My eyes lit up as I spotted a cooker, and I eagerly pulled it out.
"We need Macaroni," Cillian announced, turning to address the chef who had been hovering behind us, retrieving items from the lower cabinets.
James quickly stepped forward, procuring a pack of macaroni from one of the counter drawers. "Might I inquire, if it's not too presumptuous, which variety of pasta you are preparing for your repast?" he asked earnestly, handing the packet to Cillian.
Cillian and I exchanged a glance before he turned back to the chef. "Mac n Cheese," he stated simply.
"I see," James replied, pivoting on his heel to gather the necessary ingredients.
I carried the cooker to the sink, filling it with tap water. The stainless steel pot was sizeable, with handles on both sides, but I couldn't locate the lid. Turning back to the lower cabinet on my left, I saw Cillian already crouching there, emerging with the missing lid.
"Dang man," he muttered, rotating the lid in his hands as he observed it. "It's quite heavy," he added, rising to his feet and walking towards me.
James' voice rang out, filled with pride. "Your Majesty, I am pleased to present you with all the necessary ingredients to create the most delectable Mac and Cheese Pasta!" He gestured grandly over the assembled items on one of the countertops. "We have here another packet of elbow macaroni, salted butter, all-purpose flour, whole milk, various cheeses including cheddar and parmesan, as well as salt, pepper, garlic powder, and even a sprinkle of paprika for added color. These ingredients, when combined with the utmost care and expertise, will yield a dish that will surely delight your royal palate."
My eyes brightened, and my smile widened as I set the cooker on the stove. I turned to face James, closing my eyes and offering him a radiant smile that silently conveyed my gratitude.
James' face flushed red, and he covered it with the back of his hand. Behind me, I sensed Cillian's expression darken as he approached the stove, lid and macaroni in hand.
I turned to see Cillian about to open the packet. Instead, he smirked and extended his hand, offering me the honor. I took it from him, gripping the sides of the packet and pulling-
*Rattles*
*Clatters*
*Clinks*
Half of the macaroni cascaded onto the floor, scattering across the kitchen tiles.
*AHHAHAHAAA*
Cillian erupted into raucous laughter. My mind reeled with conflicting thoughts. Should I punch him? Slap him? No, that wouldn't be right. Perhaps I should cut him, I mused darkly.
From the far end of the kitchen, James glanced over his shoulder at Cillian, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on the boy's white hair. The wheels in his mind began to turn, recalling a conversation from earlier that morning with the food suppliers. The description matched perfectly: silky short yet slightly spiky white hair, ocean-blue eyes, slightly taller than the Queen, and extremely lean. Another title came to James' mind - the Blood Prince of Elmir, the 8th son of the Valentines. He had heard of the Queen's acquaintance with him during her time as a Princess. Could this truly be him? And if the villagers' whispers were true, could he really be Her Majesty's husband? James knew it was common for such rumors from isolated villages to spread among the common folk without reaching the nobility. He continued to observe the pair, his curiosity piqued by this mysterious white-haired young man.
The tension in the kitchen crackled like static electricity as Cillian's laughter faded, his eyes meeting my unimpressed gaze. "Alright, alright," he conceded, his tone a mixture of amusement and resignation. With fluid grace, he strode to the countertop where the second packet of macaroni lay in wait.
His movements were precise, almost hypnotic, as he grasped the packet. With a deliberate slowness that bordered on theatrical, Cillian opened it flawlessly, not a single piece escaping his careful ministrations. "You're as pathetic as a wilted flower in a forgotten garden," he declared, his words dripping with casual disdain as he approached me.
I felt a surge of defiance rise within me, a fire igniting in my veins. "Be careful, darling," I purred, my voice low and dangerous. "You don't know when a wilted flower can poison you, leaving a mark that never fades." With a gentleness that belied my intent, I took the packet from his hand, my nails expertly finding purchase on his skin. A thin line of crimson bloomed between his thumb and index finger, a silent testament to my warning.
Turning away, I allowed a bright smile to grace my features as I poured the macaroni into the boiling water, the soft plink of pasta hitting liquid a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere.
Cillian's response came swiftly, his voice calm and steady, a perfect mask for whatever emotions might be swirling beneath. "Poison me, if you must. But remember, even the most deadly poison won't kill what's already untouchable."
His words sparked something within me – a challenge, a dare. I couldn't help but chuckle, the sound rich with dark promise. Stepping closer, I traced my fingers over the scratch I'd left, feeling his pulse quicken beneath my touch. "Untouchable?" I mused, my voice a silken whisper. "Darling, even the most untouchable things crumble when the poison seeps in slow enough."
I felt Cillian's body quiver, a momentary lapse in his impeccable control. But as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, leaving me to wonder if I'd imagined it. Emboldened, I rose to my tiptoes, my lips brushing against his ear as I whispered, "What's the beauty in poison if it lingers without sinking its fangs?"
The shift in Cillian was palpable. I could almost see the gears turning in his mind, piecing together the layers of meaning in our exchange. His gaze darted to James, whose back was turned to us, before narrowing with newfound understanding.
"Is that so? Interesting," Cillian murmured, a menacing smirk tugging at his lips.
To be Continued...
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