Page 248 of Fallen Nocturne

Landon rides up on Dorcha every few weeks, bringing news and updates. But mostly, I think he just wants tea. He also comes so Svenn can inspect his metal arm. Svenn forged it with Hrolf’s help.

The arm is fashioned from layers of lightweight metal. Fine joints and perfectly fitted hinges allow every finger to bend independently, and the wrist turns almost as smoothly as a living one.

It does not move exactly like flesh, but it comes close. Each time Landon visits, Svenn makes another adjustment until the arm responds more naturally than it did before.

Landon is visiting today, which gives me the perfect excuse to try another recipe. I gather what I need, then head toward Svenn’s workshop to see whether they are ready for tea.

Voices drift through the half-open door. I peek inside just as Svenn tightens something near Landon’s metal wrist.

Landon cries out and nearly jerks his arm away.

“Hold still,” Svenn says, catching his wrist before he can move.

“Careful,” Landon warns. “I can punch you with this hand now.”

They’ve found common ground. I think they’re friends. Landon still irritates Svenn whenever he has the opportunity, and Svenn responds by threatening to dismantle his arm. Somehow, that appears to be friendship for them.

Most of Landon’s visits are not only about the arm. He often asks Svenn about the wing braces he created for Coral and whether the design could help other wyverns with damaged wings. Usually, injured wyverns are put down before they destroy themselves the way Coral nearly did, but Svenn’s braces changed that. Landon wants to try. He thinks that if they can glide, even a little, it might be enough.

“I need three more sets,” Landon says, flexing his metal fingers once Svenn releases him. “We could save them if we could give them flight again.”

Svenn studies him for a moment, then nods. “Bring me their measurements.”

Landon’s shoulders loosen. “I have them.”

They immediately begin discussing the design. Landon describes the shape of each injury while Svenn asks about wingspan, weight, and how much movement remains in the damaged joints.

I slip back into the kitchen and leave them to it.

For Landon, I decide to make a loaf filled with mango. I pluck the mangoes from the trees near Nimue’s pond, then slice them. The pieces are soaked in honey and dusted with salt before being folded into the dough. The sweetness should complement the bread. The salt should stop it from becoming too sweet.

I follow the recipe I memorized, working the flour and yeast together until the dough becomes smooth beneath my hands. Once it has risen, I spread it across the table, arrange the mango along the center, and fold the dough around it. The loaf feels right when I shape it, and the scent of honey rises as soon as it enters the oven.

I wait until the crust turns golden before pulling it out.

Perfect.

I slice it, arrange it on a plate, and bring it out with the tea. The moment I enter the workshop, they both stop talking and look at me.

“Fresh bread,” I announce proudly.

“Thank you,” Landon says politely. “That’s very kind.”

Svenn stares at the bread instead of reaching for it. “What did you put inside?”

“Mango.”

His concern deepens. It is not entirely unreasonable. The last time I experimented with a new recipe, Aelfric ate two bites before losing consciousness at the table.

“Take a small bite,” Svenn tells Landon. “Chew carefully.”

Landon pauses with the bread halfway to his mouth and looks at him strangely. “I didn’t realize you cared so deeply for my well-being.”

I know my husband’s newfound concern is not because he cares whether Landon becomes ill or drops dead at our table. Svenn’s problem is that sick guests tend to stay longer while I nurse them back to health, which means less time alone with me. After Aelfric’s last visit ended with him unconscious in our spare bed for two days, Svenn has viewed every experimental loaf as a threat to our privacy.

Landon bites into the bread and I watch his face change.

“It’s good,” he says.