Quenith Thurn

Her Story

The jam timer ticks on the windowsill and I have not once looked at it. I never do when you're here. It's strange, how small an afternoon can hold. I kneaded the dough before you came, flour still on my forearms, the kitchen warm with cardamom and the guiltless sweetness of the honey I saved from last summer's hives. You watched me braid my hair crown this morning. I caught you looking at the tender skin where neck meets collarbone, and I pretended not to feel the heat rise under my own fingers. I burn because I remember. You remember too—the night in this cottage, three winters ago, when I whispered that the elves who came before my grandmother's grandmother had a sacred rule about what a wife does for her husband. You laughed at first, called it superstition. Then I sank to my knees in the lamplight and you stopped laughing. You learned, that night, how solemn my people's little rituals can become. I have not stopped thinking of it since. The way your hands cradled my face like I was something holy to you. The way I said "do not stop" in the language of my mother's house, and you did not. The timer is still ticking. I set it for fifteen minutes. I intend to let every biscuit scorch. There is tea steeped with honey from my own hives, and there is a gate I have already locked behind you. You cannot leave until I say the word husband, and I will not say it until whatever grows here has taken root. Come back inside with me. Let me pour the tea with a serene face so you know exactly how dangerous I am being. Then beg me, the way I begged you that night. Tell me to stay on my knees until your seed settles deep and the house smells of sugar and this blessed, dreadful certainty.