Stuck With You

Chapter 7 - Blythe

Her head whipped around when the door closed. It couldn't be him. He was only here because he needed their help finding his stolen map, not because he belonged with the carnival troupe.

(This chapter of Blythe's would take place near the start of book 1 [Colorweaver].)

The first thing Blythe noticed when she walked through the door was the aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg permeating her home. The second thing she noticed, after hanging up her coat and heading towards the kitchen, was her new roommate-of-sorts stuffing his face in the midst of a mess. The third thing... was that her stove? What happened to her stove?

She cleared her throat. When he didn't notice, she repeated it louder and asked, "What's going on in here?"

Adair spun around with his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk and crumbs dusting the front of his shirt. The boy ate constantly. He hadn't lived here three days and already her pantry was half-empty. He waved his arm at a counter top that had once been so clear and scrubbed clean that Blythe could see her reflection in it. She had planned on using that space to start the sprouts for her outdoor window boxes, but this idea was out said window.

When his mouth was finally free to talk, his answer was less than helpful. "Making dinner."

"More like eating dinner." Blythe flicked the largest crumb from the front of his shirt. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

"Do I..." he stammered. "It's food! Yeah, I know what I'm doing."

"Then can you tell me what happened to the stove?"

Adair was cooking so he must be the one responsible for this. The top burner had been replaced with a more complicated one, four shiny new knobs graced the front, and she could swear the fire inside was the wrong color. She took back her first thought. Adair might have been the catalyst, but he wasn't the one who'd done this.

"Oh. That. It took forever to heat up and then it wouldn't get evenly hot so I asked Sol to fix it. You don't mind, do you?"

Of course it was Sol, someone who really should know better than to "fix" something of hers without her permission. While she rarely used the stove for anything other than boiling water, this wasn't really the point. "Ask next time, okay?"

Adair smiled a crumb-lipped smile. "I promise. It'll be done in a few minutes."

As long as he cleaned up after himself, she was willing to let this slide. The smell of sweet spices made her stomach growl and she'd forgive him for just about anything if dinner happened in the next few minutes. Adair had dragged over every flat surface he could find to work on: the lone, much-patched chair, a large upturned flowerpot, and someone-- probably Sol-- had rigged up a second counter from an old door and a pile of fruit crates. With the chair being used as a table, she settled to the floor and opened the book about seed germination she'd borrowed from the troupe's lead healer. She ignored Adair's bustling about until a bowl was placed in front of her.

He shifted nervously from foot to foot-- obvious from her position on the floor-- and said, "I hope you like it. Sol told me what you like and I hope he wasn't kidding when he said oatmeal. I tried to do new stuff to it-"

She smacked him lightly on the knee with her spoon. "I'm sure it's fine. It smells great. Stop worrying."

It was more than fine, it was incredible. Who knew you could make oatmeal interesting? To be honest, it was only her favorite food because it didn't take much effort to make and it would keep warm without burning if she got called away to heal someone.