She stared after him with eyes as blue as a summer sky, when he left her. Naella had looked like an angel, white-blonde halo on the still lake water. His sister had laughed at the clouds and told him she wanted floss candy. Iris touched her strands, a vague sense of discontent settling into her heart. She couldn’t well live with her master disappointed. His blood still made a mess of her, gossiping all kinds of strange things that had nothing to do with cooking. Still, she was a nymph, not Kedrick’s sibling, when she resolved to step out of the water.<br/><br/>When she stood from the bath, the water was clear. Like a little bog plant, she’d cleaned it of the shades Kedrick had offered it. Iris might have made a model parasite, really, hadn’t she been so willing to die for his modest amusement. Parasites had a bit more self than that.<br/><br/>She carried the towel he’d left her, though she didn’t use it to dry. Her skin took in the lingering moisture like a starved succulent and left Naella’s porcelain glowing like fresh snow. The bathroom had opened into Kedrick’s room, and a set of drawers across the spacious room felt out of place. There was a large closet, lined with tailored suits, and dressers there to hold his more comfortable items too. When she pulled the drawers on the lonely dresser by his bed, she found clothes that were several years out of date. Some of them even looked a bit small. Iris ran her fingers over the fabrics and understood they were held with grudging nostalgia rather than practicality. She did not understand they were off trend. Iris knew the dark secrets of her master’s heart, not the present state of fashion.<br/><br/>In the third drawer she found a woman’s clothes. Newer, and folded with great care. They were a remarkable fit for her size, but Iris had grown in her particular proportions because her mother fruit had sipped on Kedrick’s soul. She pulled on a dress, because it was simple and because he had said she should find clothes. Iris did not know, or care, about what might have been appropriate to wear beneath the pale shift.<br/><br/>She returned to pick up the schematic Kedrick had left her and frowned at the image. It was fortunate that the glass pane had been designed for intuitive use. Iris had never interacted with such a device, but running a finger over the surface in admiration of its texture was enough to acquaint her with the concept. It wasn’t difficult to find her way to his kitchen from there. She’d been grown with essential knowledge of him, even if she was new to his world.<br/><br/>Standing barefoot in the kitchen, she realized that she had been sent to an unfortunate task. Iris did not know how to cook. It was for that reason, more than any other, that she was so long coming out to find him. When she did go out to meet him at last, she looked terribly guilty.<br/><br/>“Master, I don’t know how to cook. I was unsure how to prepare anything you’d like. Perhaps, if I could be trained, I might serve you better?” she was meek about the suggestion, unwilling to look at him directly. She would have liked to do the things he asked and felt useless for requiring help to accomplish it. More puzzling was the insistent surge of her own pulse, which railed against believing the tasks he seemed intent on would do anything for his satisfaction. Iris rationalized it as her own punishment, though she’d yet to understand what, exactly, she’d done wrong.<br/><br/>She set a plate in front of him, despite her declared ignorance. Iris would offer what she could, after all. When she pulled the little crystal, half-dome cover from the dish, he’d be presented with a bounty of her antler’s sprouting bud. The soft petals looked almost like candy, blushing in sunrise shades. The bases of the blooms were thick with her sap-like blood, still fresh. If he looked her over closely, he’d find that she was still trembling from her own self-mutilation. Her sheered antler, again bare, dripped like a confession for her dry cheeks. It was a valiant sort of offer, and one which had been inspired by his own daydreams. Whether Iris understood that, herself, or whether she believed it was an offering of her own devising was difficult to say. “We are sweet to human tongues.” Iris said, careful even as she tried to explain herself. It was true. Nymphs were sweet in every way, and addictive to the right pallet, too.