He swallowed.
Arthur froze. He stopped breathing for a second. The spoon hovered halfway between his mouth and the bowl.
It wasn't magic. It didn't instantly cure his depression or erase the years of grief, but it was good. It was incredibly, violently good. The meat melted on his tongue, savory and deep. The broth coated his throat, leaving a trail of intense, comforting heat that pooled in his hollow stomach. It tasted of salt and earth and time. It tasted like someone gave a damn.
A sudden, sharp sting hit the back of his eyes. He blinked it away instantly, a surge of panic tightening his chest. He couldn't remember the last time he felt warm. He couldn't remember the last time something hadn't tasted of ash or alcohol. He lowered the spoon back into the bowl. He stared at the dark liquid, his mind racing, trying to rebuild the walls of cynicism that a single bite of beef had just kicked a hole through.
Beatrice watched him. She saw the slight tremble in his hand before he gripped the spoon tighter, saw the way his shoulders—tied up by his ears—fractionally dropped. She didn't say a word. She didn't gloat.
Arthur took another bite, then another. He didn't look up. He ate methodically, mechanically at first, and then with a quiet, desperate intensity. The bowl was empty in less than three minutes. The spoon scraped against the ceramic, a loud sound in the quiet room. He set the spoon down. He stared at the empty bowl.
The silence stretched. It was heavy, but the hostility had bled out of it.
Arthur finally looked up. He didn't say thank you; the words wouldn't fit in his mouth. But he looked at her—really looked at her, taking in the flour on her cheek and the burn on her wrist.
"There is..." he started, his voice a little rough. He cleared his throat. "There is a bedroom in the west wing. The roof doesn't leak. The fireplace draws well. You can move your things from the stable."
Beatrice held his gaze. A small, tired, genuine smile touched the corners of her mouth. "I'll need wood," she said simply.
Arthur looked back down at the empty bowl. "I'll chop it."
The axe was dull, its handle splintered, the iron head rusted brown and heavy. Arthur gripped it anyway.
He stood in the courtyard behind the kitchens, the morning frost biting at his face. The air was thin and sharp. He threw his coat over a broken stone bench and rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt. His breath plumed white in the gray air. At his feet lay the remains of a massive fallen oak that a storm had brought down two winters ago; it had been rotting in the mud ever since.
He swung the axe. It hit the wood with a dull, ineffective thud, biting barely a quarter inch into the bark. The shock traveled up the wooden handle, rattling the bones in Arthur's forearms and jarring his shoulders. He hissed through his teeth. His muscles, atrophied by months of sitting in a chair and drowning himself in cheap spirits, screamed in immediate protest.