Damien grabbed what looked like a poker out of a vase near the fireplace, only there were three metal prongs at the end instead of a metal hook. He took one of the thick slices of bread, pressed the bread into the prongs, then held the poker near the fire.

“Are you cooking the bread?” Selene asked.

“Toasting it. On snowy mornings, my mother would invite Quinn and I into this room, and we would toast bread together.”

Selene glanced over to find Damien smiling wistfully. The smell of warm bread began to fill the room, causing her stomach to gurgle. “Sounds like a nice memory.”

“It is. And it’s a memory I wanted to share with you.”

Damien pulled the poker back a minute later. The bread was golden brown now, and crispy along the edges. He blew on it a few times before pulling the toast off. “Here,” he said, holding it out to her.

Selene took the toast with a frown. “Now what?”

Damien grinned and reached around. He picked up the small crock and the accompanying knife and lifted the lid off to reveal creamy white butter inside. “Hold out the toast.”

Selene held up the toast. Damien dipped the knife into the crock, then spread the butter across the top. The butter melted across the surface, leaving the bread glistening and golden. The smell of toasted bread and butter made her mouth water.

“All right, go ahead and eat it.”

Selene took a bite and chewed, savoring the flavors. “This is good!”

Damien laughed as he speared another slice of bread and held it near the fire. “It’s one of my favorite foods. Such a simple thing, and yet so comforting and delicious.”

Selene munched away on the bread while Damien finished toasting his own. Then they sat in amiable silence, enjoying the simple fare and sipping their tea.

“How often did your mother do this for you and your brother?” Selene asked as she wiped away the crumbs from her dress.

“Many times. We would laugh and talk and eat toasted bread together.”

A lump filled her throat. Selene leaned forward and wrapped her arms around her knees while she watched the flames dance across the logs. Time with her mother meant training and discourses on Ravenwood’s history and importance. She couldn’t even imagine sitting on a rug with her mother and Amara, laughing and enjoying toasted bread. The thought almost made her laugh out loud at the absurdity of it, except for the sudden tightness across her chest.

“What memories or traditions do you have with your family?” Damien asked, spearing another piece of bread.

The tightness grew. “My memories . . . are not like yours.”

“Explain.”

Selene had half a mind to ignore his request, but another part of her wanted to share. “We never laughed. And we rarely spent time together, other than for training and House Ravenwood affairs.”

“By we, you mean . . .”

“My mother and Amara. Everything we did had one goal: to further the interests of House Ravenwood. If it didn’t benefit House Ravenwood, we didn’t spend time on it. Ophie, however, is four, and so she has yet to be trained.”