“So this is where the magic happens?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. It was indeed the kitchen we had entered, so far as I could tell. There were cupboards and cabinets on one wall, alongside counters and drawers. A basin was set into the counter. It had a drain, but no faucet, leading me to wonder where the water was coming from. There was a metal contraption in the corner that I assumed to be the stove. It was a square thing, standing on four thin legs, with a flat top and a door in front.

“Magic?” Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “It’s. Where we do the cooking? I mean, I guess you’re technically doing magic right now, but usually it’s more about. Like. Chopping and heating things?”

“...Of course. How silly of me.” I didn’t feel like explaining the saying, so I simply let it go. “You said you would teach me how to make porridge, yes?”

“That’s right,” Abigail confirmed, opening one of the cupboards and pulling out a large iron pot. “It’s pretty simple, actually.” She moved to open a drawer, pulling out a long metal ladle. “You really need only one ingredient.”

“One?” I asked, honestly confused. Oats, of course, were the main ingredient of porridge. Water, however, was undoubtedly essential as well. I still wasn’t sure where she was going to get it, either.

“All you need to do is take a pot, like this one…” Abigail placed the black pot on the stovetop, and smacked it lightly with the spoon. “Then you grab some oats…” She moved to a cabinet, pulling out a big burlap sack. It seemed to be something of a struggle for her to lift, so I bent down and casually picked it up.

“How much do I add?” I questioned her, moving over to the pot.

“For three people? About four cups should be more than enough. ...Though I guess you don’t know how much a cup is, just eying it, huh?”

I rolled my eyes. “I think I can manage…” And in went the oats. It wasn’t a precise measurement, of course, but it seemed close enough. “Now what? You said that was the only ingredient, yes? You can’t mean to say that you simply cook it like this…?”

“It’ll burn in an instant if you try,” Abigail promised me, a faint smile on her lips. “I meant it’s the only ingredient you need to have on hand. We conjure the water.” Saying so, Abigail held the palm of her hand out toward the pot. In response, a ball of water appeared, growing steadily bigger. When she had what I thought was close to a cup’s worth, she let the water drop into the pot, where it landed with a resounding splash.

“There,” Abigail said, with a smug smile on her lips, “...We’re gonna need to do that about nine more times, but since there’s really only so much water in the air it takes a bit of time to gather it all.”

Gather water from the air? Was she referring to moisture in the atmosphere? It was true that you’d find a bit of it, there, but the tower didn’t feel particularly humid so I couldn’t imagine there was too much of it. If I waited for her to make another nine cups like that, it was going to take a while… Then what if I used a different method?

“May I try filling it?” I asked her, stepping forward. I dropped the illusion I was wearing without asking for her response; I could always put it back.

“Huh? Uh. Sure. But it’ll still take a bit - like I said, there’s only so much water in the air…”

“Yes, that’s true,” I admitted, unperturbed. It was indeed a fact that one would find only so much moisture in the local atmosphere. But why did I have to restrict myself to what was local? Letting my power flow out of the room, and into the apartment as a whole, I drew water toward myself. Slowly, a ball of it began to form, growing bigger and bigger. When it was the required size, I let it drop into the container with a loud splash. 

“How did you…?”

“Demon queen secret,” I replied, trying not to laugh. I’d really only used brute force to solve the problem, in the end, but I saw no reason to clue Abigail in on a feat she wouldn’t be able to repeat. 

“Right… The Rite of Insight. I guess it really did give you the wisdom of your ancestors, didn’t it?” Abigail nodded to herself, seeming convinced. “Alright, well. Now that we have the water, we just need to set the fire…” She opened the door I’d noticed on the stove, revealing an empty space where wood would no doubt go. “There’s wood under that cabinet,” she said, indicating one near me. “Can you get some for me?”

“Of course,” I readily agreed, bending down to the cupboard and peering inside. There were four logs inside, and I grabbed the smallest one. “Though… wouldn’t it be better to simply create a magical flame for the duration of your cooking? It wouldn’t burn wood, and you would have better control of the temperature.”

“Most people don’t have enough magic power to cook an entire meal with it, Eena,” Abigail pointed out, sounding exasperated. “I don’t think I’d even be able to keep up an illusion spell like you were, earlier. And you should conserve whatever you have left for the road back.” She reached for the wood, as she spoke, but I pulled it back and tossed it back into the cupboard.

“Nonsense,” I told her. “I’m sure wood is expensive - and you are not giving my magic capacity the credit it is due, besides. Tell me when to stop growing the flame.”

I pictured an ember, floating in the space beneath the stove, and it appeared. Then, ignoring Abigail’s slackjaw stare, I began to slowly increase the size of the flames.

“Th-that’s enough!” Abigail called, quickly, once I had a ball of flame about twice the size of my fist. “That’s more than enough.  Do you think you can keep it up for five minutes, or so? We need to let it boil, and then reduce the heat.”

“No problem,” I promised her, stepping closer to the pot so that I could peer inside. “I’m fairly certain I could keep this up for days.” Indeed, despite the last hour’s constant expenditure of magic, I couldn’t say I felt much of a dent in my magic power. I was either recovering my magic faster than I was using it, or I simply had an unimaginably large capacity. It was quite possibly a bit of both.

“Is everything going alright in there?” came Bevola’s familiar voice. 

“M-Mom! We’re fine! Don’t come in!” Abigail called back. She sounded a touch panicked.

“Don’t come in? Now you’ve really got me curious,” Bevola teased. I could hear her footsteps coming closer. “You wouldn't happen to be preparing something special for your old mother, would you dear?”

“I told you! I’m just teaching D-Eena how to make porridge!” Abigail insisted. “W-we haven’t even gotten it to a boil yet, so there’s no point in you coming in! Just take a nap or something!”

“I’ll nap when I want to, dear,” Bevola said, entering the kitchen. She walked up to the stove, standing besides me and peering curiously at the open door. “Why, you haven’t even put the wood in yet, have you?” she accused, frowning. “And you’re talking about bringing it to a boil… What’s wrong with you?” She moved over to the cupboard, pulling out a small log and carrying it back to the stove. This she dropped inside, and lit with a spell of her own. “There. Now it should start cooking properly,” she declared, closing the oven door. 

“Honestly, my dear,” she added. Looking at me, “you should have had me teach you instead.”

“Maybe you can teach me my next recipe,” I said, with a faint smile on my lips. I had of course dropped the fire spell in order to restore the illusion from before.

“You drop by sometime when Abigail isn’t here, and I just might,” Bevola promised, trudging back out of the kitchen. “Now get along you two! I look forward to the food you cook.”

“A-Alright mom,” Abigail agreed. She waited until her mother had left the kitchen before sneaking a glance at me. “Thanks. For the quick thinking.”

“It’s hardly a problem,” I replied, cooly. “Though with the wood already burning, I’m afraid there’s not much I can do to put it out other than drenching it with water. If you’re alright with it, I’ll simply concentrate on managing the size of the fire.”

“That’s fine.”

I gave a small nod, and opened the door to the stove again so that I could focus on managing the flames. For a few moments, other than the sound of the crackling fire, the room was silent.

“....Your mother doesn’t like me, does she?” I phrased it as a question, but I was fairly certain I was right.

“Huh?” Abigail blinked, surprised. “No, she likes you fine. I mean, she’s been practically flirting with you since you got here, y’know?”

“The real me,” I corrected. “She does not like Queen Devilla. Does she?”

“Oh.” There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, during which Abigail looked at everything in the room except me. Then her eyes met mine and she spoke. “My other mother was a soldier, in your mom’s army. She died when I was a baby - fighting in the war.”

“And your mother blames me?”

“No. But…” Abigail let out a long, slow sigh. “She does think you’ve wasted mother’s sacrifice.”

“I see,” So that’s how it was. I couldn’t precisely say that Bevola was wrong. It was almost certainly my fault that demonkind hadn’t made any progress since the last war.

Without anything to say, on either side, an uncomfortable silence settled on the room. I did nothing but stare at the fire, keeping it controlled, while Abigail nervously poked the toe of one foot at the floor and glanced over her shoulder occasionally to see if her mother was coming back.

“Alright,” Abigail said, at last. “The water’s started to boil, so you should lower the heat down to about a fifth of where it’s at right now, and then start stirring the porridge.”

“You want me to be the one stirring it?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t as if I particularly minded; I simply thought that I’d tease her a little, to lighten the mood. 

“Hey, you wanted to learn how to cook , right? You put in the oats, and most of the water, plus you’re controlling the flame. If you do the stirring, I’ll be willing to publicly state that you know how to make porridge.”

“And what would the tower think if they found that their powerful and bratty queen knew how to cook a commoner’s meal?” I demanded, placing my hands on my hips.

“Maybe that you’re not such a brat after all?” Abigail suggested. “Maybe they’ll even realize you’re… sort of… Not terrible to be around. Sometimes.”

“...My. Such words of praise, from my loyal maid. Careful or I’ll start to think you’re after a raise.” I held out a hand for the ladle, as I spoke, and Abigail handed it over with a blush on her cheeks. 

Silence reigned again. The only difference from before was the clanking noise occasionally made by the ladle when it hit the pot. Despite that, I found the silence somehow more comfortable than before.

“I… never said ‘thank you.’ Did I?” Abigail asked, after a few minutes.

“For what?” I asked back, honestly confused. “You are the one who provided both the lesson and the ingredients. If anyone should be thanking you, it should surely be me.”

“No. I mean… When you stood up for me. I didn’t expect you to get so angry on my behalf - so…I guess it didn’t occur to me to say something. But I should have. Thank you.”

“...I simply did as I desired, in the end,” I confessed. “I did not consider how it would make you feel, having me threaten someone like that. In the end, I simply acted selfishly. Like the bratty queen  I am.”

“That’s not true,” Abigail insisted, shaking her head rapidly back and forth. The movement sent her blonde hair whipping back and forth, and I paused a moment in my stirring to watch the spectacle, unable to resist a small smile. 

“I’ve never had anyone but Mom stand up for me like that,” Abigail continued. “I don’t exactly like it when she does it, and I’m not sure you doing it was any better, but… Still. It’s nice to know you care.”

I didn’t respond, simply stirring the pot. The oats soaked up more and more liquid as I did so, until the porridge was thick enough to make stirring difficult. With that, Abigail declared breakfast a success, and withdrew three bowls from a cupboard and some spoons from a drawer. I doused my flames with a splash of water, recast my illusion spell, and  filled each of the bowls. Carrying two of them to the dining room table, I placed them on opposing sides of the table.