Chapter 19 "Plagues, you have to be the worst Hyper in Ilya." The Imperial cannot currently see the lazy disapproval on Blair's face with a scarf tied over his eyes, but Death witnesses it clearly from where she sits atop the bed. "Well, I am but a lowly Mundane," Lenny mutters dully. "I'm not sure what you expected from this exercise-" "I expected," she growls, "an Elite to actually use their power. Now open up your senses." The Imperial shifts uncomfortably on the wood floor. "This is a waste of time." "Any time with you could be better spent," the Tele sneers impressively. "Now smell." She uncorks a vial. Mara scans the remarkable assortment of spices in Blair's collection as she orders, "Describe the notes." "It's hard to smell anything past the scarf wrapped around my head," Lenny mumbles. This has Blair scowling. "It doesn't smell like anything." "It smells like you." The Tele blinks. Death is fortunate enough to have a front-row seat as Blair grapples for composure. After straightening her spine and picking at that skin on her left palm, she finally commands, "Then smell harder." Lenny sighs in exasperation, unaware how his knowledge of the Tele's scent has affected her. "Uh..." Even while sitting several feet away, he is able to pull apart each layer of the faint aroma Blair has unleashed. "It's spicy, but there is a hint of sweetness." "Do better." "Fine, uh, I'm getting a hint of citrus at the top," the Imperial ventures. "Then something earthier, like..." He seems to be pushing his power, chasing after that final undertone. "Like wood. Pine." Blair actually sounds pleased. "Not bad. It would be a shame if you couldn't identify the spice that shares your name." Frowning, Lenny pulls the scarf from his face. "What was it?" The sun has long set since they began this odd training (hence why Mara isn't perched beneath her window), but Death can clearly see Blair's smug expression as she lifts the vial. "Ginger, obviously." "Ha ha." He shakes his head in defeat. "You know what, calling me by my real name is just as offensive. I'm cursed to be a 'Lenny,' and Ma still has the audacity to say she loves me." Mara tilts her head at the frigid smile that touches a corner of Blair's lips. "I'm sure it's nice to hear, nonetheless." Her words seem to sober the Imperial. Not everyone is on the receiving end of such affection. And those who are, Death thinks bitterly, will only end up hurt. "It is nice," Lenny says softly. It looks as though he is about to stumble through some sort of sincerity when Blair returns to her formalities. "Those are all the spices I have with me," she informs, gesturing to the hidden chest she retrieved from beneath a floorboard. Vials are scattered atop the wood beside her crossed legs. "But tomorrow, you will ask Gail for a dozen more so we can test your smell again. It is your weakest link, and that is saying a lot." Lenny ignores the pointed dig to nod instead at the only spice left within the box. "What about that one?" The Tele's gaze darts to the confined brown powder. "We aren't using that one. It's nutmeg." Mara leans in, her interest piqued. Lenny mirrors Death with a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Do you not like nutmeg or something?" "Why would I like nutmeg?" she snaps. "Nutmeg is insufferable. And I hate it." Death has the strangest feeling that the Tele is no long speaking about a spice. In fact, if she were to study the exact shade of Lenny's eyes, Mara might just compare it to a rich sprinkling of nutmeg. But that is just her opinion, of course. Perhaps Blair is thinking nothing of the sort. (Though, Death is rarely wrong about these things.) "Whoa." Lenny lifts his palms into the air where she can see them. "Yeah, sure, nutmeg is the worst." This seems to satisfy Blair's sudden surge of anger. With a sigh, she begins placing each vial back into its designated spot within the chest. "You're improving. It's good to know you aren't a complete lost cause." The Imperial harrumphs halfheartedly. It has been a week since the future queen set sail for Izram (a kingdom Death frequents in her gathering of souls, though she does not have to brave the Shallows to do so), and they have spent every day since then pushing the Imperial's power to its fullest. Mara watches Blair (as does Lenny, both intensely and quite often) hide a piece of her passion beneath that floorboard, stifling the box of spices. And with every passing day, that skin on her palm only grows more mangled. The Imperial clears his throat. "Why are you helping me again?" "Don't ask, or I might change my mind," she retorts. "Besides, your idea to incorporate fire into my death was surprisingly not stupid." (Death is looking forward to such impending disaster.) "Thanks?" "Don't thank me," the Tele snaps. "I am simply repaying a debt." "Right," Lenny agrees sarcastically. "Not an ounce of goodness in your heart, huh?" Blair's gaze is now sternly set on his. "I'm not sure what is in my heart. It's likely hollow." Mara considers this. Her heart no longer beats at all, so she feels unfit to form a proper opinion. This rarely happens, seeing that drawing correct conclusions is her favorite pastime. The Imperial's consideration is followed by a lazy shrug. "All the more space to hold the things you love." Blair struggles not to gape at his words. Something suspiciously close to awe falls over her features before it is quickly smothered with indifference. "That was unsurprisingly stupid." At this point in the night, Death kindly leaves them to their boredom. She strides out into the hall with a foreign feeling of excitement tangling in her stomach. Yes, Mara is looking forward to learning how to live this evening. But her veiled zeal has nothing to do with the king's company, of course. He is waiting for her in the kitchen with a towel slung over his shoulder. Kitt's hair is a disheveled collection of golden strands that displays his frustration in the path his fingers have continually combed. His green gaze meets Mara in the doorway, warming at the sight of her. That rarely happens when one lays eyes on Death. Quite the opposite tends to occur, actually. For this reason, she can hardly help the shadow of a smile that creeps across her stiff features. "Are you ready for your lesson on living?" he says by way of greeting. In truth, Mara has been waiting all week since their conversation in the gardens. But the king is understandably busy, what with running a kingdom and slowly dying, so Death graciously gave him some space. Or so he thinks. She has, of course, observed him from afar since the very beginning. His meetings with the Scholars, nonsense with the Healers, and most interestingly, his dinners with Paedyn Gray. None of this matters, Death reassures herself. It cannot. This may come as a shock, considering how levelheaded and stoic Mara is, but she has been known to become rather obsessive. But that is not this. Entertainment, remember? "I am ready," Mara answers honestly. She strides into the kitchen, taking her place beside him. "What will I be learning?" Kitt grins as he pulls a bag of flour from the cupboard clinging to the wall above. His hands are stained with ink. "Creation-in its simplest form, obviously. I thought we could attempt to bake something." Slightly ironic, considering the Tele that had been exclusively trapped in her room until Paedyn's departure, but Death is not opposed to the idea. "Attempt?" "If we manage to make something edible"-the king shakes his head-"I'll consider this a success." Mara watches as Kitt gathers an assortment of ingredients. He sets them on the counter, never slowing for a single second. Death notes the dark circles beneath his eyes, the stretching of his skin atop sharp cheekbones. Yes, his blue soul is dimming with every passing day. "Do the Healers still have you taking their useless herbs?" Mara asks evenly. Kitt glances over at her. "They do. But I like to think they help a little bit." At the king's direction, Mara dumps flour into a bowl. "They don't. Healers no longer know how to heal without their borrowed power." "How do you know so much about Ilya?" Kitt asks skeptically. "How do you know so little about your own kingdom?" It's as though he cannot help but chuckle. "You speak your mind. I appreciate that." "Death does not have time to waste." "No, I'm sure you don't," he returns. "It's still so strange that you are here. A physical being." Mara stands idly beside the king as he cracks an egg into the bowl, adding several shells to the other ingredients. She really is not much help. "We can be honest with each other, Kitt," she says evenly, the use of his name somehow intoxicating. "What surprises you the most is Death being a woman." "Maybe at first." His tired eyes meet Mara's. "Only because I expected such brutality from a man." "I am not a killer." Her correction is clipped. A crease forms between the king's brows. "But you are... Death." "I am the absence of Life," Mara says simply. "Just as darkness is merely a lack of light. I only collect souls when Life decides to let them go." Kitt stops his struggled stirring to stare at her. "So, you're saying it is Life that kills?" "It is Life that gives up, not Death that takes away. Though, it is my reputation that suffers." Mara drags her finger through a dusting of flour atop the counter. "No matter. Humans need someone to blame. I don't mind being their villain." The king shakes his head. "I'm sorry. That doesn't seem fair." There this king goes again, understanding Death. "It is not fair," she agrees simply. "But I'm quite good at retribution, if I so desire." A heartbeat later (Kitt's, of course), and Death is already moving on from the morbid topic. "So, what is it we are attempting to bake?" "Right." The king runs a hand through his hair, raking fingers through that paved path. "Yes, I'm supposed to be reminding you how to live. You'll have to wait your turn to further educate me on dying." He forces a smile onto his features. Mara quite enjoys the warmth he exudes, though opposite from her in every way. "Now, I was hoping to make a batch of Ilya's favorite treat-" "Sticky buns," Death finishes. "I've heard." His brows lifts. "Have you ever had one?" "I don't eat." The king's face falls. "Oh. Oh. I really did not think this through, did I?" He chuckles uncomfortably. "My mind has been a bit jumbled lately-" "But I can," Mara cuts in. She does not want to disappoint him. And she certainly does not ponder why that is. "Oh, good." Kitt sighs in relief. "Well, then, you will need one of these." He lifts an apron from a nearby hook. "You might want to take off your cloak." Death, who has never done such a thing in all her years as a resident of the Mors, unclasps the thick wool from around her shoulders to reveal a fitted ensemble of black beneath. Stepping closer, the king takes her weathered cloak, hangs it from the free hook, and looks down at a watchful Mara. He then loops the apron's strap around Death's neck to crown her with the stained fabric. If she had any breath to hold, she might have done just that when he reaches around her waist (his arms brush her hips, which Mara barely notices, of course) to tie a knot behind her back. "There," he murmurs, rather close to her ear. "Now you shouldn't get covered in flour. No promises, though." Death watches him return to the counter. She then finds her composure and follows. Kitt tips the bowl over, shaking it slightly to free the thick dough from within. It plops onto the counter, its consistency less than promising. The king and his shadow of Death stare at what they have made. "Is it supposed to look like that?" Mara asks earnestly. Kitt almost laughs. "I have no idea." He attempts to knead the dough into something more appealing. But it is lumpy and dry and peppered with eggshells. Finally, the king steps back to stare at the mutilated creation. "You know what..." He shakes his head. "Living is a mess. It's complicated and chaotic most of the time. So"-he reaches around Mara once again, tugging the laces there free with a single pull-"forget the apron. This is all the lesson on life you need." Death slips out of the thin cloth. "I don't understand." Smiling, Kitt dips a hand into the bag of flour. Then a powdered finger is dragging down Mara's nose. "What do you feel?" he asks, his eyes brighter than they have been in days. Death blinks at the grinning king. "I feel flour on my nose." Now both of Kitt's palms are completely white. He cups Mara's face with them. "And now?" She stares up at him. No one can touch Death like this, and if they could, they certainly wouldn't dare. She had forgotten what it felt like to be held. And in this moment, Mara is suddenly afraid of what she would do to feel this way again. "I feel... an exhilarating lack of control," Death realizes. The king's smile only widens. His gritty hands are still on Mara's face. Yes, Death made a grave mistake coming here. "That," he breathes, "that is what it feels like to live." Mara remembers now. She remembers this feeling. It was once associated with a ghost. The sound of approaching footsteps has Kitt pulling away. Another feeling Death knows all too well. "Blair, don't-" The warning whisper is lost within the sound of squealing door hinges. The unbothered Tele strides into the kitchen, her boots sinking into the puddle of light. "Oh," she says dully. "It's you." This is addressed to Kitt, of course, though Mara stands unseen beside him, covered in flour. Lenny skids to a stop behind his assignment. Then swallows at the sight of his king. "Your Majesty. I apologize for the intrusion." And Death thought this night couldn't get any more interesting. "Blair." Kitt clears his throat. He fights to keep his gaze from straying toward Mara. "This is the last place I expected to find you." Her gaze flicks to the poor excuse for dough. "The feeling is mutual." The Imperial clears his throat. "Your Majesty, I figured since Paedyn is off on her second Trial, Blair could stretch her legs a bit. But we will leave you to your"-he too glances at the creation atop the counter-"baking." "No, it's fine." The king drags floured palms down his tunic. "We-I am done for the night." His gaze shifts to Death, unbidden. She nods. Yes, it is rather nice to be noticed. Lenny's gaze drifts around what he believes to be an empty room. "Uh, thank you, Your Majesty." "Enjoy your free time, Blair," Kitt offers, making his way to the door. "But if Paedyn makes it back, you will have to return to your room for a little while longer." The Imperial stiffens slightly at the king's lack of confidence in his betrothed. Mara, who cannot help but wonder, thinks that perhaps Kitt does not intend for Paedyn to return. This is hardly an unreasonable accusation, considering the deadly incident that drew Death to her side. She was suspended in the air above a raging sea. Mara now finds these situations Paedyn Gray gets herself into unsurprising. But she watched from afar, waiting to see if her services were actually needed. Of course, they were not. The Enforcer pulled her back aboard the ship, evading yet another run-in with Death herself. Yes, Mara would have to inquire about this. "You haven't hydrated your flour," Blair points out with more than a little contempt. "That is why your dough looks like shit." Lenny winces at her words. But the king only gives her a look that speaks to their rocky relationship. "I'll keep that in mind for next time." "You do that," the Tele calls after him. Kitt strides from the kitchen as Death plucks her cloak from the hook, slinging it over floury shoulders before following. Blair's ire grows distant behind the closing doors. "What a waste of perfectly good ingredients. I'll salvage it. Now, listen closely, gingersnap-you of all people should be able to do that. I need a lemon, warm water, cinnamon sticks..." The king rounds a corner, shaking his head. "I see why you watch them." Mara stares longingly down the hall. "You want to go watch them now, don't you?" Kitt sighs. "Something is happening between their souls," Death says. "I thought they were doomed, but now I'm not so sure." The king shakes his head. "Their souls?" "Something you will learn when I teach you how to die." "Deal." Kitt smiles sadly then. "And... thank you. It's easy to feel like myself when I'm with you." Mara does not tell him that the feeling is likely due to his soul drifting toward her-toward Death. He feels better in her presence due to this morbid connection drawing them together. Nothing more. (But maybe, just maybe, something more.) "Good night," this Azer says softly. He looks like so many before him. Kitt turns to leave before glancing over a shoulder. "That night in the hall... You were serious about not sleeping, weren't you?" "Deathly so," Mara says evenly. "I'm afraid I always am." He nods, his slight smile warming something within Death's cold chest. "I'm beginning to learn that. Oh, and"-he gestures vaguely to Mara's complexion-"you have a little something on your face." She might have let a small smile slip onto her stoic features. "It's a good thing only you can see me." "Yes." Kitt turns away. "I have Death all to myself." The king does, indeed. And if he weren't already doomed to die, Death's newfound infatuation would certainly be fatal. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...