I pushed the tea back toward her, blood on my hands but not a lick of it on my lips, “My name is Silas Forbes.” I held out my red-stained hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Her eyes skated across the table, her posture straightening, proud and tall. “Alina Lis,” she replied, grasping my hand in a firm shake. “I look forward to doing business with you, Mr. Forbes.”
39
THE POISONER
My new flat was full of the scent of pine and apple. Phoebe and John were in the kitchen sorting out the goose and pies, Rebecca and Mary were tending the fire, and everyone else had found a seat on couches, chairs, or cushions on the floor. The glass observatory was the most popular seating area, as the girls enjoyed looking at the busy streets below or the sky above.
We had to use nearly every full kitchen for the geese since they had the largest ovens. The breads were done in the ground-floor communal kitchen since it would be closest to our pantry with the flour. Others made their own small dishes in their own kitchens to fill out the plates.
We managed to find a decent tree to display this year. It was tall and proud in the middle of the room, the centerpiece of the evening, with the couches rearranged around it. Last year, we completely forgot and ended up sticking a broom in a corner to mark where the presents would go.
The tree was covered in strings of cranberries and popped corn while fruits were nestled in between the branches, waitingfor when they would be plucked off later as a late-night treat. Candles balanced on the branches, flames dancing like timid ghosts.
The mantel on the far side of the room had a long pine garland draped over it, adding a pleasant scent to the smell of burning hickory. Decorating the garland were dried circular slices of orange to add a bit of color to the green.
The girls were dressed as festively as their surroundings. Velvet textures, knitted blankets, and borrowed ribbons as accessories. They made perfumes from spare orange peels, juniper, or concentrated vanilla.
With all the ruction, I never knew what to do with myself. Much like typical parties, I found myself becoming a mute in a far-off corner, the silent observer most comfortable in the shadows.
Not only was I out of my typical environment, but I was barely in my own clothes. A deep green gown with black ribbon details. One of those ribbons was tied around my throat with the bow to the side. The stones in my ears were almost as heavy as my hair. I styled my locks half up, yet I could feel the soreness starting at the back of my neck. Borrowed clothing, borrowed jewelry, borrowed time; all to myself.
The entire morning was dedicated to cooking, starting as early as four o’clock. I helped make apple cider, the only thing I knew how to do. The trick was to add an orange and an equal amount of red and green apples to the simmer pot, then add bourbon or rum to taste.
The geese had been cooking most of the morning. They were huge, and justifiably so due to the number of mouths we were feeding. Some girls made other small dishes to pick at with fresh bread.
Phoebe interrupted the chatter by ringing the dinner bell. “The geese need to rest, so let us trade gifts while we wait!” she announced.
The dampened muttering returned to life as people got up to grab their presents to distribute. One by one, people plucked the wrapped boxes and scurried to find their gifts’ intended.
I planted myself in the corner, out of the way, in no rush to participate.
Luka was sitting off to the side, watching the mayhem as well. It seems that I wasn’t the only one with the same line of thought. I almost expected him to harbor some sort of animosity in that proud posture of his. Instead, he looked disjointed, longing, awkward above all else. He sent unsure glances at his cup, in embarrassment of wherever his mind wandered to. He reminded me of a terrible child knowing that coal awaited him under the Christmas tree, not bothering to get his hopes up for anything more.
Then, Edith approached him, sitting next to him as she clutched a small, parchment-wrapped box with twine string. Luka gave her a puzzled look as she spoke. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I watched her lips move quickly; then she stopped and bit her lip.
She handed him the box, and he froze, unsure of what to do. In clear shock that he had received anything at all. As he tugged the strings and unwrapped the box, he gently lifted the cover from it. His face went through what looked like the seven stages of grief. He glanced back at her before looking down again. He lifted a proper inking pen from the box.
I didn’t think it was possible, but I swore I saw tears in that man’s eyes.
He raised his hands, my heart leapt, only to settle when he slowly hugged her. Though in the embrace, his chin buried in her shoulder, and his eyes clenched shut, like he was holding any sort of human resemblance back.
The gesture made me flinch; it was wholly unexpected from a thing like him.
Everyone formed groups after trading gifts, gathering around to spectate as they shared their gifts with one another.
Mary made another member a skirt with embroidered flowers along the trim. Rebecca bought Mary a few porcelain thimbles with little blue details painted on them. Others traded ribbons, hats, shoes, sweets, and whatever else they had collected or made for one another. The whole thing was very heartwarming.
The unfortunate part of all this merrymaking was that, even with the beautifully touching atmosphere, I ached inside. I itched for something stronger than the liquor in the cider. The way I couldn’t find a place to put my hands unless they were crossed, shifting on my heels as I leaned against the doorway to my room, the urge to retreat quietly and close the door behind me.
I was able to break away from my post to refill my cider, moving to the kitchen where a pot of cider rested next to the turkey, potatoes, vegetables, and pie. As delicious as it looked, I couldn’t bring my appetite to allow it.
“Alina?” Phoebe spoke from the archway of the kitchen.
“Oh, merry Christmas, Phoebe.” I smiled tiredly, eyeing the pot before reluctantly turning away from it. “I’m beginning to doubt we can finish all of this food, for once.”
She stepped forward, eyeing the cider pot. She was wearing a red dress, bolder than her usual girlish colors. The sturdy fabric extended high on her neck, framing her pale face between the fire of her dress and hair. It made her seem older, mature. For once, there was something more vibrant than her locks.
