They did manage to get into the tub—the ability to speak to water and persuade it to heat proved to be once again entirely useful—and Nerein took a sort of proprietary charge of washing Peter all over: legs, stomach, blond chest-hair fuzz, even arms, peppered with kisses. The soap laced the air with chamomile; Peter held out limbs obediently and let himself be cared for. Nerein smiled more, in the way of someone discovering a new aspect of himself: enjoying this providing of care.
Nerein tucked him into bed after, under blankets. Peter caught his hand. “Where’re you going?”
“Tea. And currant buns. Don’t move. Stay warm.”
“I am. Do you want help?”
“No. I want you right here.” Those otherworldly eyes danced. “I want to come back and find you just like this.”
“I can do that.” Peter snuggled down into pillows and thick conspiratorial woolen knit. His blankets were on Nerein’s side. They’d fallen in love too. “But tell me if you have an argument with the kettle.”