There's something in his voice when he says my father's name—not bitterness exactly, but a complexity that speaks of history, of things unresolved.
"He taught me to cook," I say. "But I also studied your recipes. Everyone did, at culinary school. Your approach to regional ingredients was revolutionary."
He makes a dismissive sound. "That was a lifetime ago."
"Good work endures," I counter. "I still use your technique for reducing maple gastrique. The one with the cider vinegar and pink peppercorns."
A flicker of surprise crosses his face. "You remember that specifically?"
"Of course. It was in your second book, the one about northeastern ingredients. I practically memorized it." I hesitate, then add, "Dad has a first edition. Signed."
He looks away, back toward the fire. "Like I said. A lifetime ago."
We sit in silence for several minutes, drinking tea, the only sounds the crack and hiss of the fire and the persistent howl of the wind.
"You should sleep," he says eventually. "It's late."
"Probably," I agree, though sleep feels far away. "What about you?"
"I'll stay up a while longer. Make sure the fire stays hot enough to keep the pipes from freezing. I'll get you another blanket."
He rises, moving to a chest near the wall, and returns with a thick woolen blanket that he drapes over me with unexpected care. His hand brushes my shoulder in the process, a touch so brief it might have been accidental.
"Thank you," I say, looking up at him. In the firelight, his eyes are darker, the lines of his face softened.
He nods once, then returns to his place at the other end of the couch.
Chapter 5 – Silas
The fire has burned low, more embers than flame now, casting the cabin in shadows tinged with orange. Sage sleeps beside me. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body.
I remain frozen, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, the slight parting of her lips.
Twenty-three years separate us. She is the daughter of the best friend I ever had. She is innocent in ways I stopped being decades ago. By every measure of decency, she should be off-limits, untouchable, unthinkable.
And yet I can think of nothing else.
There's a cruel irony in this: twenty years of isolation, of deliberate distance from anything that might disturb the quiet equilibrium I've built, and now this impossible, unwanted, undeniable wanting, brought straight to my doorstep by a snowstorm and fate's perverse sense of humor.
She stirs, eyelids fluttering, and I quickly look away, fixing my gaze on the dying fire.
"What time is it?" Her voice is husky with sleep, softer than usual.
"Late," I reply, not looking at her. "Or early, depending on your perspective. Around three, I think."
I hear her shift, the soft rustle of blankets as she sits up straighter. She's tucked her legs beneath her, the blanket pulled up to her chin. Her hair is tousled from sleep, falling in dark waves around her face.
She looks impossibly young and impossibly knowing all at once.
"How's your hand?" I ask, nodding toward the burn.
She extends it, palm up. "Better. Your salve worked wonders."
The angry red has faded to pink. A good sign. Still, I find myself wanting to examine it closer, to run my fingertips over her palm, to—
I look away again.
"The storm's still bad," I say, reaching for safer topics. "County plow won't be through until morning at the earliest."
