Shisma via Wikimedia Commons; modified
for canon chapters, see Table of Contents
“You’re up early.”
Cedric walked through the doorway to find Eloise alone in the kitchen. She had her dark hair in a neat braid that fell down her back, tapering to a delicate end that had been bound into a tassel by a thin blue ribbon.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Bad dream.”
She looked away from her measuring cup, carefully choosing quiet words. “Sorry to hear that.”
The whites of her eyes were bright, and the intensity bore into him.
“Don’t be,” he said quickly, trying to soothe her. “It’s not your fault.”
She stole back her gaze, turning toward a carton printed upon in yellow.
Cedric maintained his distance on the other side of the half-wall, trying to piece together what she’d been doing. Before her sat a whole audience of small items: four eggs, a tiny bottle of tinted glass, a bag of flour, and several other components.
“Myrtle makes you cook breakfast by yourself?” Cedric asked tartly.
He saw Eloise smile in amusement from the side of her face. She had returned her attention to a steel saucepan on a woven insulator. As she moved the wooden spoon in the translucent liquid, Cedric could hear sugar granules scraping against the metal.
“She doesn’t make me,” Eloise replied patiently. “It’s the most important meal of the day.”
Cedric stepped closer, but he still let the half-wall stand between them. He read the carton. “Buttermilk?” he asked, the word familiar but the substance foreign.
She parted her lips and expelled air in a gesture too embarrassed to be called laughter. She looked at him and their eyes caught for a moment, and then she was the one who looked back down.
“Yeah—” she said in a small voice. “The original recipe had both baking powder and baking soda. And with the baking soda, you needed acid to activate it, so you were supposed to use a little vinegar: a teaspoon poured into the milk to sour it.”
“But, I don’t know,” she shrugged. “That just felt wrong to me.”