I began cooking the stew I had learned from the old man, watching John over my shoulder. He had been reading a book since we returned, the silence between us back. Stolen glances made both of us aware of how curious and intrigued we were to see how much we had changed in the time apart. Somewhere in the black night a nightingale sung loud and true, drowning out the pops and crackling of the hearth’s fire. John slammed the book shut and I flinched. We locked eyes and he gave me a smirk as he rose to his feet.

“So no one touched my room when I left?” He walked over, pushing the door open and glaring in where he sat his belongings on his bed.

“No.” My voice came out softer than I had intended.

“There wasn’t dust, the bed stuffing fresh.” His forehead creased, more lines than I had last remembered across his brow. “You’ve been keeping everything in shape this whole time? Alone?”

“Yes.” I kept my eyes on the stew, grabbing a knife and carrot.

“Alone for how long?” His voice deepened and my breath caught.

Slicing carrots, I wasn’t sure how to answer the question.

“How long, Dante?” He had a talent to sound demanding, but in a seasoned voice it was startling.

“Seven.” I cursed under my breath, cutting my thumb slightly.

“Seven years,” he echoed in a gentle whisper. “I’m sorry, Dante.”

“And those were his last words to me.” Slumping my shoulders, I kept moving. The cut too shallow to bother with. “He was on borrowed time.”

“I know, he was always quick to remind me.” John walked into his room and slammed the door.

I remembered to breathe again, leaning on the water barrel beside the stove. It was a conversation I knew would come, but it stung on so many levels. Catching a flicker of maroon reflecting on the water’s surface, I glared at myself. Never did I think someone would shake me to my core like he did. Pulling away, I lost myself to the task at hand. Again, only the song of a lone bird outside filled the quiet wall filling the space between us. I scooped a bowl for John and placed it on the table, and one for myself. John’s door opened and he sat down, waiting for me to do the same. Nodding, we began eating, though it all felt strange without the old man.

“How did you like Captiva City?” I couldn’t bare the silence any longer.

“It was fine.” He took a large bite then shook his head. “It tastes the same.”

“The stew?” I paused looking at him.

“It’s the same as his.” Sighing, he started scooping up the next bite. “Thank you.”

“It’s the only recipe I know,” I confessed.

A smile broke out on both our faces.

Swallowing, I pushed him further, wanting to hear about his time away. “Did you make friends with anyone?”

Nodding, he smirked. “Of course I did. A knight named Valiente who serves under our friend Sonja, a Mother Superior of the Nuns. Then there’s Bishop Montgomery in records and the guardian of the catacombs.”

“Catacombs?” I lifted an eyebrow.

“Some of the oldest texts are kept there.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke, “It’s why it took so long for me to return.”

I froze. “What do the catacombs have to do with how long you took?”

“You have to be a priest to gain access to them.” He answered, flatly.

“So, you read musky scrolls and books for three years before coming home?” My spoon dropped, clacking loud against the metal bowl. “What was so interesting to keep you enthralled for that long?”

He paused, glaring at this stew before looking up. “I’ll tell you another time.”

My face twisted and he snorted. It was his way of jabbing me about my own secret. With a sigh, I opened my mouth to continue the conversation. My words failed as he slid his empty bowl to the center of the table and stood.

“Forgive me,” He spun away, headed for his room. “I’m exhausted. We’ll talk more in the morning.” And his door shut.

Glaring at the door, so many memories of him doing this very move to his grandpa came crashing back. It made me smile, but it faltered. He was now avoiding me. My chest swelled.

He doesn’t want to talk about Captiva City. Something happened, and sadly, his shield and sword had been here unable to help him.

Pushing down the thought, chills rolled across my skin. It was unnerving to not know what his life had been like in these ten years apart. I finished, cleaning up and pushed into what used to be the old man’s room. I hadn’t really made it my own, keeping the cabin in the exact state it had been when John left. Sitting on the bed, I covered my face in frustration. Parts of my clothes were still damp, I hadn’t stopped or deviated from being the lost puppy at John’s heels.

Sleep was impossible. Knowing John was there on the other wall after spending so long wondering if he was ever coming back. He was back, now what? The thought felt like a jab from beyond the grave. He likes you… the old man had said once. He can’t possibly be like that now, I retorted, part of me bitter to even have to think about it at all. Morning came, and I dressed, eager to dive into chores and not think for a change.

John was sitting in the chair, reading once more. I froze, I hadn’t heard his door open and wondered if he had been as sleepless as me. Without a word, I walked pass him and made my usual trip to the cellar. I returned with eggs and the last of cured bacon I had been saving. At the stove, I brought the fire in its belly to life once more. Bacon sizzled on the cast iron skillet and I cracked eggs to fry. The smell of it all filled the tiny cabin in an instant.

“Liar.” John’s voice made my heart drop.

I turned to him, wide-eyed. Liar?

Twisting to steal a glance, I realized he was hovering over my shoulder to see what I was cooking. The heat of his hand rested on my shoulder and he grinned at what he saw in the skillet. The moment he let go, I remembered to inhale and exhale, almost burning an egg needing to be flipped. Last time he said that word to me we were talking about who I was and my braid.

“You know more than one recipe.” He added, much to my relief. “You’re a good cook, Dante. I’m surprised.”

“I wouldn’t call heating meat and eggs to an edible temperature a recipe,” I retorted.

“Some folks can’t even do that,” he added, opening his book.

I slide eggs and bacon into the two bowls, one for John and one for myself as I joined him at the table. We ate, not like it had been before he left. At this point he would either challenge me or the old man on a matter before we had our first bite. By the third bite, an argument would erupt and insults flying. At this point, halfway through a plate or nearly finishing my plate, either I would have to play peacemaker or John would tire of the circles I spun and march off to his room. Then again, he wasn’t an eighteen-year-old boy anymore. Across from me was man who still held that light I saw the very first time we found each other. My food slid off my fork and slapped back into my plate. John peered up from his book, his eyebrows high. A heat rose in my cheeks and I scooped it back up, speeding myself along.

Does he even remember any of it? I had no idea how hard this would be without you, Paul.

“It’s strange with him gone,” John confessed, revealing we both felt the weight of his absence. “This is usually the moment you presented a compromise and we’d agree.”

“I was just thinking that too.” I circled the last of my bacon in yolk and took it in, watching John read as he spoke. “To think I used to bargain trading chores to make you read.”

“You once told me, the best way to see the world is through words of another.” He flipped the page and took a bite, eyes on the pages. “I didn’t understand what you meant until I had an entire library of words written by others. Different places, times, and history through the eyes of many and not just one.”

“It can teach you a lot,” I gathered my plate and began rinsing it in the small sink by the water barrel. “I once had a library within reach, and in some ways, I miss it.”

“It must’ve been grande and hard to leave it behind.”

I froze, stiffening as I placed my bowl back on the shelf. The weight of my braid, where it fell parallel to my spine was a burning reminder of my past and the secret I couldn’t reveal, even if he knew. Muttering under my breath a million curses, I marveled at my own indecisiveness.

Why had I bothered to grow the cursed thing back?

“Sixteen knots, right?”

Turning his gaze was on me and no longer the book as he bit into his bacon. I couldn’t gauge the emotion, the look on his face or even in those blue eyes.

When did he become so intimidating?

“Yes,” I turned away, heading for the front door. “There’s work to be done. Spring came late this year.”

“Dante.” His voice was loud and sharp as my hand reached the door. I refused to face him or to meet the burning gaze at my back. “I’ll be out there to help you soon enough.”

“It’s my work, not yours,” I muttered.

“It’s my farm and I work for no one, and I will not have someone working for me.” The book closed and the scrapping of his last bite filled my ears. “Plus, you won.”

“Won?” I turned back, confused and he grinned to see he had my attention again.

“The longest braid.” He stood and flopped his dirty dishes in the sink. “It means I take half the chores, doesn’t it?”

I laughed, memories flooding me. “You’re like a dog with a bone, just never stop.”

Pushing out the door, it was a relief to be free of his gaze and the tension fell from my shoulders. The John that had left was still inside him, though part of me scared to know who this new, more seasoned version would prove to be as time passed.