“Could be worse.”
“How?”
“Could be dog food. Trust me, that smell doesn’t wash out.”
They cleaned up the treacle—mostly—and continued. The dough came together eventually, despite Evelyn’s continued insistence on precision and Alyssa’s cheerful disregard for exact measurements.
“How do you know when it’s ready?” Evelyn asked, poking the dough ball suspiciously.
“When it feels right.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.” Alyssa pressed her thumb into the dough. “See? It springs back a bit, but it’s still soft. That’s perfect.”
Evelyn tried it herself, her expression shifting from sceptical to surprised. “Oh. That is quite satisfying.”
“Right?”
They wrapped the dough and put it in the fridge to chill. Bug, having given up on treacle opportunities, had relocated to his sunbeam and was watching them with the patient resignation of someone who knew the good bits were still to come.
“Twenty minutes,” Alyssa said, setting a timer. “Want some tea?”
“Please.”
They sat at the small kitchen table, mugs warming their hands, flour still dusting their clothes. The mobile home felt smaller with Evelyn in it, but not in a bad way. More like the space had rearranged itself to accommodate her presence.
“I haven’t really done this before,” Evelyn said quietly. “Baking, I mean. Not properly. Just that one disastrous soufflé.”
“Not even at Christmas?”
“Especially not at Christmas. I always left it to the professionals—caterers, bakeries, whoever Mum hired.” She traced the rim of her mug. “Mum used to make these elaborategingerbread houses. She’d spend days on them—royal icing, sugar glass windows, the works. I’d watch, but I never actually helped. I was always too impatient. Wanted to skip to the decorating without learning the basics.”
“Did she ever let you try?”
“Once.” Evelyn’s smile was soft, sad. “I made an absolute mess of it. The walls collapsed, the icing went everywhere. But she helped me salvage it, and we put it in the centre of the table like it was a masterpiece. She said it had character.”
Alyssa reached across and squeezed Evelyn’s hand. “It probably did.”
“Maybe.” Evelyn squeezed back, then seemed to realize what she was doing and pulled away, clearing her throat. “Anyway. That’s why I’m rubbish at this. No experience.”
“You’re not rubbish. You’re just…structured.”
“That’s a polite way of saying controlling.”
“I was going for ‘thorough,’ but sure.”
The timer went off, breaking the moment. They retrieved the dough and began rolling it out—another source of creative differences.
“It needs to be exactly five millimetres,” Evelyn insisted, producing a ruler from somewhere.
“Where did you even—never mind.” Alyssa shook her head. “It doesn’t need to be exact.”
“Everything needs to be exact.”
“Not everything.”
They compromised at approximately five millimetres, which Alyssa could tell physically pained Evelyn to accept.
