I’m too tired to argue. Dragging myself onto one of the padded stools, I say, “Coffee would be great. Thanks.”
But what she passes me is a half-empty shot glass of black tar. “What is this?”
“Ristretto,” she says. “Try it.”
“You said you were making coffee.”
“I was,” she replies. “Figuratively, anyway.”
“Can I get a lime and some salt with this?” I ask just to be a brat, but she ignores me.
I shoot the coffee dose and expect to cough it down but insteadfind it rich and smooth as cream. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll have another. In fact, just leave the bottle.”
Arla folds her arms and glares at me. “I like this version of you,” she says, “even when it annoys me.”
The statement leaves me feeling naked.
“It’s an improvement, I think, over the introverted damsel you’d become.” When I don’t respond, she walks around the island and places a hand against my stomach, low so it covers my empty womb. “There is fire in your belly yet,” she whispers before sauntering away to join Brennan on the sofa.
I follow like a puppy and seat myself on the floor beside the ottoman, crossing my legs over the sprawling hand-knotted rug. Despite the tension I read between Brennan and Arla last night, he rises to let her sit, laying his head back in her lap, and Arla strokes his hair while she leans over him to read the 1961 issue ofVoguehe’s lazily thumbing. They all seem to have such an easy way with each other.
“The woman in your room—” I start to say before she cuts me off.
“Cadence.”
I remember Brennan mentioning her to Arla. She let him know we were at the cemetery.
“Did you two have fun last night?” Brennan asks wickedly.
I frown. “I don’t think so. Not the kind you’re looking for.”
He pouts his disappointment. “You don’t pitch for the all-girls team?”
“Not usually,” I tell him.
He yawns as if this makes me boring. “Too bad. You’re not her type anyway. She likes the curvy ones.”
I think I should feel offended, but I’m too hungover to care. “Is she… one of you?”
Arla and Brennan share a chuckle. “You could say that,” she replies.
“I used to be the only fledgling,” Brennan explains with a grin. “But Momma went and laid a new egg.”
“Oh, stop it,” Arla scolds, smacking his shoulder. “You know it’s not up to me.”
“Oh?” I stare at her, my mouth rounded. “Who is it up to, then?”
Twig’s laughter on the dance floor echoes back from the fuzziest recesses of my befuddled brain.She decides who comes, who stays… at least for now.This constant allusion to a secret power, to someone other than Arla calling the shots, both concerns and intrigues me. Arla has the languid certainty of a jungle cat, that sleek independence that calls lesser beings to her shadow. I can’t imagine her beholden to anyone.
Brennan sits up and bends down to pinch my cheek before stalking to the kitchen. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“One step at a time, kitten. That’s how any road is traveled,” Arla coos.
“So, I’m in the Fathom now?”
She studies me. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
Her response only confuses me more. “Get what?”
