He poured milk in, then sugar, and with a wooden spoon began to mix it all. More spilled over the sides. Apparently he was rusty. She smiled, and he looked up at her through thick dark lashes. “What?” “Nothing.” “You’re laughing at me.” “No,” she said and then burst out in laughter. It wasn’t even that funny, but he looked so out of place with flour all over his shirt, mixing a bowl of ingredients to make scones. He was the Black Mage, the god of mischief, a killer, and a novice baker.
