A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 30: The Catalyst of Wings

Cassian smiled at her. "Galadriel's tougher than she looks."

"You've trained soldiers before. You should know when to pull your punches."

"I—"

Galadriel pressed her finger to the general's lip. "Cassian, you talk way too loudly and if I throw up again it's going to be on you. Literally and figuratively. Rhys—" she glared at the High Lord "—you weren't there so you don't get to give your opinions on what he was or wasn't doing. And frankly, I'm not in the mood to see you. Both of you shut up before my head explodes over this sitting room."

Cassian smiled behind tight lips that were pointed at her lap; an expression that said, 'she told you.' Rhysand remained completely unamused, hurt darting across his face. It returned to stoic emptiness a heartbeat later. With a curt nod, he rose back to his feet and was little more than a blur of darkness in his retreat.

Sighing, Galadriel rested her hands on her knees.

Cassian wiped his hands clean on his pants. "Something happen between you two?"

'Something' was a vague term. And what had happened between her and Rhys wasn't just vague, it wasn't even a single thing. She couldn't wrap her head around the High Lord and what he did to her head. "He's just an arrogant asshole," she dismissed. That wasn't anything near the truth.

He was an arrogant asshole, but he wasn't just one.

Huffing, Cassian sunk onto the carpet, wrapping his arms around his tented knees. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

"Too bad."

~

Galadriel reread the letter from Amoise, tracing her eyes over the beautiful, cursive hand. Her friend. One that still believed her name was Sahra. One that she lied to for two centuries. But still a friend that she missed dearly.

She missed the Autumn Court. The palace's dark halls and stained-glass windows. The hustle and bustle in the kitchens whenever she picked up duties there. The lake on the edge of the palace grounds, the water so dark that some days it appeared black but it was always splattered with the brightest leaves of burnt orange and brown and pale green.

Doing what she always did whenever she couldn't get out of her head—Galadriel baked. She dusted the entire length of her kitchen bench with flour, rolling dough until her arms burned and her fingers twitched. Every recipe that she could think of and had the ingredients for, she made. Breads, muffins, tarts, cakes, eggrolls, cream rolls, jam balls. The sun began to descend, peeking through the window opposite to where it had when she started. The entire house managed to become a mess—eggshells shards scattered along her floor, smears of melted chocolate staining her wall, smudges of butter on her window. It became a warzone of battling scents, each one trying to dominate the rest.

Mor visited at some point during the day-long kitchen rampage, ranting on about Cassian and how he should have known better. Galadriel agreed, but she didn't like throwing blame, and left Mor to rant on her own. When she realised Galadriel wouldn't join her gossiping and bickering, she left, mentioning something about returning in the morning to make sure Galadriel woke up alright.

A talon of velvet scraped her mind not long after. It was gentle—one she might not have noticed at another time. But right now, it was all she could think about. Not caring if he pried, she left the gates to her mind open for him.

Galadriel was bent over, pouring batter carefully into a shaped tin when somebody knocked at her door. She lurched so hard that she knocked the tin off the bench. It clattered by her feet, the filling exploding in every direction, drenching the hem of her dress. Swearing—because now she couldn't hide from whoever was at the door—she stomped over the batter.