Silently berating myself, I doubled back.
Long past formalities, I let myself into Mrs. E’s. The smell of breakfast instantly consumed my senses.
“Hi, Mrs. E!” I called out as I took my coat off and hung it on the hook next to the door.
“Hello, dear. I’m in the kitchen, don’t mind your shoes.”
Ignoring her directive to trudge through her pristine home with my muddy boots, I left them on the stoop.
I found Mrs. E leaning over the suds-filled sink, washing dishes. The instant her hazel eyes found mine, they brimmed with delight. That cherished expression had always warmed my heart. This tiny woman, who only came up to my shoulders, had more love for me in her right pinky than my entire family combined.
My features mirrored hers as I leaned in. She wrapped her arms over my shoulders, forcing me to lean down and wrap mine around her torso as her soft floral scent flooded me while we embraced.
“Have a seat, sweetheart,” she said, stepping away for the singing kettle. I moved to grab it off the stove, and she cast a stern gaze my way. I abandoned any notion of helping, taking my usual seat across from hers.
The kitchen table was a masterpiece of hand-carved artistry. After all this time, I still marveled at the ornate detailing, often finding myself idly tracing its elegant patterns.
This room was undoubtedly my favorite in the manor; each corner echoed with cherished memories. Wall-to-wall paneled windows offered a stunning panoramic view of her sprawling estate. The property was encircled by meticulously tended gardens, which were bordered by the forest at its furthest reaches. A soft, butterscotch light from the morning sun flooded in, highlighting the rich tones of the mahogany flooring.
My teacup made a soft clink as Mrs. E placed it atop the matching saucer, which was next to a plate full of eggs, bacon, a bun, and fruit. Gods only knew where she sourced anything fresh this time of year. She brushed a hand across my back, rubbing it for a moment before settling into her own chair. The deeply spiced scentof the tea wafted up in her wake. I smiled, knowing it was double strength, just as I liked it.
“Happy birthday, Nyleeria.”
“Thank you, Mrs. E.”
I no longer protested when she fussed over me. She’d never had children of her own, and her husband had passed many moons ago. In a way, we’d become each other’s family.
“How was yesterday?” she asked, then tested her tea to check if it was cool enough. Evidently, it wasn’t.
“It was the usual for my parents.”
“No surprise there.” We’d both accepted them for who they were long ago.
“Nope. Not even a mention of it today. Although, I didn’t give them a chance.” I took a bite of the bread, still warm from the oven. I sighed. “This bun is wonderfully dulcet.”
She chuckled. Having an affinity for lexicography, she’d taught me to sprinkle in grandiloquent words in everyday settings—if for no other reason than because we could.
I pushed the strawberry preserves her way.
“Eithan and I trained yesterday. Oh, and look!” I turned to my rucksack and pulled out the dagger, handing it to her.
Mrs. E raised a delicate brow as she took in the blade’s details. “This is some fine craftsmanship. Where did that young man get the coin for this? And do you think it’s appropriate, Nyleeria?” Her lips pursed as she handed it back to me.
I held the dagger for a moment, retracing the swirls with a fingertip. I didn’t want to have this conversation.
“You know how he gets.” I shrugged. It was a bullshit response, and we both knew it. I put the blade away and avoided the look waiting for me.
“That boy loves you, Nyleeria. I’m not sure accepting it sends the right message.”
Feeling the weight of her gaze, I sighed and finally lookedup. “I know, and we talked about it—well, not about the gift so much as him leaving.”
She looked at me over the rim of her teacup. “Talked, hmm?”
“Yes,talked. We didn’t cross any lines.”
She lifted a brow in accusation, waiting for an honest answer. I raised my hands in defeat. “Alright, fine. We may have toed the line, but we stopped before it got too serious.”
She sat there, wielding her best interrogation tactic; silence.
