A Little Night Muse(49)

                Adelyn looked around at the disaster. Who could’ve                     guessed she’d need so many spoons? She glanced ruefully at the sink. A touch of                     glamour would be quicker than lemon bubbles. But when she left, the dirty dishes                     would reveal themselves.

                If only that was her biggest mess.

                Fortunately, she had watched Josh deal with such chaos, so she                     plunged into the work. The bubbles were almost like a glamour, silky under her                     fingertips and glistening with tiny rainbows. But when they popped, they left                     clean dishes behind. A simple magic, yet strangely satisfying. She had all the                     pots scrubbed and upended beside the sink to dry when Josh came through the                     doorway.

                He looked around with a wary gaze that popped her own bubble.                     “Did you make something?”

                “Lunch.” From across the room, she heard his stomach growl, and                     the tightness in her chest eased enough to let her laugh. “I thought you’d be                     hungry.”

                He shifted from one foot to the other, hat in his hands, as if                     he wasn’t at ease in his own house, and her amusement withered. He seemed so                         right in this place, but she had taken away his                     peace.

                He gazed back at the doorway longingly. Somehow she knew, if                     she held out her hand, he would flinch, much as Wolly had at first. Now she and                     the dog were good friends. Which had made her think of cooking for Josh.

                She moved the clay pot from the oven to the counter and lifted                     the lid.

                Josh stepped forward with a sniff. “Since when do fairy                     princesses make cornbread?”

                “Bread and wine appear in many fairy tales. The making is a                     kind of magic, really.”

                He had been reaching for one of the muffins, but hesitated.

                “Not actual magic,” she assured him. “Just yeast and sugar and                     plenty of butter. Some beans on the side, also not the magic kind.”

                She pushed the little feast—a real feast, not the phae kind that left the guests hungrier when they                     left—toward him.