“Letter?” asked Rowan.
He nodded. “It’s a bit of a hobby. I write to stay in touch but also keep a few pen pals I’ve never met.”
Rowan leaned in. “Gavin McCreery, do you own a fountain pen?”
He mirrored her, leaning in with his eyes dancing. “ ‘A’ fountain pen? Nooo…”
She gasped. “Do you have a fountain penproblem?”
He crossed his arms. “It’s only a problem if it’s out of control.”
“What’s the most you’ve ever spent on a pen?”
“I plead the fifth.”
“He has beautiful penmanship,” said his grandmother with a chuckle. Her eyes slid to Rowan, and the old woman seemed to finally take a good look at her. As she did, her eyes went wide.
“Lili?” The old woman’s voice shook.
Lili? Did she mean Rowan’s mother?
She supposed it made sense that Liliana would have played out here with Sarah when they were young. Rowan glanced around the lodge, imagining echoes of her mother’s much younger self running through the halls with Sarah-then-Larsson.
Gavin touched his grandmother’s arm briefly and said, “This is Rowan, Liliana’s daughter.”
“Thank you for having me up,” said Rowan.
“Of course,” said the old woman, her expression clearing. “Welcome, Rowan. I’m Ana. You must think I’m completely addled. You remind me so much of her.”
“I get it,” said Rowan.
It was a white lie. While their physical similarities were there, they were such different people that the idea they could be mistaken for one another was difficult to fathom. If she’d had even an ounce of her mother’s focus, control, and resilience, maybe she’d have done something worthwhile by now. What’s more, if she’d inherited her mother’s magical affinities, she would never have to question whether using her powers was a good idea.
Her heart stuttered at the thought. Something must have shown on her face, because a touch on her arm alerted her to where Gavin stared down at her, brows knit in concern. She drove back the feelings, brightening her smile.
The old woman’s eyes flicked between Rowan and Gavin, appraising. “I saved kransenkake for you.” Ana retrieved a dish of what had once been a tower of pale brown almond cookies laced with white icing. “And there’s plenty of tekake and hot coffee.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” murmured Rowan, accepting a checkered mug. Her stomach let out a sound like a baying hound.
Ana caught it, laughing. “I can make more. Do you want anything else?”
“You have been busy all morning,” said Gavin, steering the old woman to a cozy spot in front of the fire. “I’ll cook.”
“Are you sure?”
“More than sure,” said Gavin, planting a kiss on his grandmother’s forehead.
“Well, I suppose I’ll join your grandfather on the trails then,” said Ana, glancing between them again with an evasive look. “Give you two some privacy.”
With that, the old woman was off, and they were left alone. Rowan leaned against the counter as Gavin scanned the cabinets and fridge, taking stock of what was available and what he might do with it. Rolling up his sleeves, he threw a skillet onto the stove to begin heating it.
“So, when you say you can’t cook,” he said, pulling out a bag of onions, “what does that mean? You don’t know many recipes, techniques or…?” He paused briefly to fill the pan with oil before moving on to a heavy wooden cutting board. His knife flew over an onion, cutting it into tidy pieces of uniform size with crisp efficiency.
Rowan put up her hands. “All the above? I mean, sure, I can follow basic recipes, but they need to be specific. If it says to do something ‘to taste,’ be prepared for the taste in question to be ‘rancid.’ ” He laughed and tossed the onion into the already hissing oil before moving on to cutting potatoes into even chunks. “And that magic you’re doing there where everything’s uniform—forget about it! Gonna be big old ragged hunks.”
“Well, that’s a matter of patience.”
“Exactly the problem.”
