I didn’t expect sleep to come last night. I definitely didn’t expect to wake up like this. But I don’t recall the anxious thought I was having, so I keep walking, following instinct instead of analysis, as a scent reaches me. Chamomile, subtle and fragrant. As well as ginger, warm and familiar.
I follow the trail of scented tea, and it eventually leads me into the kitchen.
Sunlight pours in through tall windows, catching on pale stone counters and hanging greenery. A kettle steams on the stove. Sterling stands beside it, sleeves rolled to reveal his strong forearms, as he pours hot water over a waiting mug.
“Morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” I reply. “I smelled some tea, so I came by.”
“You found it.” He lifts the mug. “For Elle’s morning sickness.”
“Oh.” I hesitate, then offer, “Congratulations.”
Sterling sets the mug down and stirs in a spoonful of honey. His head’s dipped down, but I can still see his smile. “Thanks. It’s really early, but we’re excited.”
Then he nods toward a tall pantry door.
“There’s more tea in there,” he adds.
I open the pantry to find neat rows of jars and boxes. Chamomile. Peppermint. Lemon balm. Dried moringa. Ginger root wrapped in paper. My fingers brush the wrapper, grounding myself in the fine texture.
Taking a bit of the ginger, I turn to face Sterling when I hear him walk toward the doorway.
“Thank you,” I call after him. “For letting us stay. I was told this was your estate.”
“It was,” he says. “But I should be thanking you. For what you’re doing. Fixing Kys.”
My throat feels as if it’s closing from remembering my life’s work. All of it gone in an instant. The memories threaten to flood my mind. Cold floor. Warm blood—
I try to swallow down the sudden nervousness. Ignore my cool collar drenching with sweat.
Sterling walks closer, eyeing me. I look up to meet his stare, fixing my glasses that have slid down my nose.
“You okay there, Em?” he asks, voice as low as a whisper.
I nod, not wanting to disturb him or deter him from serving his wife the tea he made for her.
He frowns, turning his head a little to the door, then slowly looks down at the steaming mug. “Elle’s waiting for me.”
With a side glance, he leaves. I turn to search for a mug of my own.
Soon, I find the cabinet they’re stored in. I grab the closest mug. On it is a collage of a data table and a graph, as well as the wordsFreak in the Sheets. I’m not certain what the reference is.
I set it down on the counter, and start preparing the ginger. I slice a small piece of it, rinse it carefully, and place it into the mug. Steam curls upwards as I pour hot water to fill the ceramic.
I’m considering whether honey would agree with my stomach when a voice rings out from the hall. “Hello there, broody half-brother!” Kaye’s cheer is clear across the way. “What? All I get is a nod? Go away, jerk.”
I suppose cheerfulness can be brief.
She appears in the doorway just as I’m searching for a sweetener. Her expression brightens when she sees me. “Em!”
“Good morning,” I say, holding my mug. “May I trouble you for some sugar?”
“Ooh, didn’t want to knock on your neighbors’ door for that?” She sounds as though she’s teasing me, but about what, I’m not sure.
She hands me a container from another cabinet, watching with interest as I add a small amount of cane sugar.
“So,” she says casually, leaning against the counter. “I have a proposal.”
