They stood under the warm water for what felt like forever. Rhiannon found solace in the fact that despite being the one to bring up the “talk,” Pru seemed just as reluctant to get to it as she was. And so they took their time. Soaping each other’s bodies, shampooing hair, indulging in the blissful aroma of the conditioner.
When the water pressure finally started to dwindle, Rhiannon pouted. She didn’t care that it was childish. Pru gave her the privacy to apply lotion and pout some more.
After she pampered her skin and brushed her hair, Rhiannon had no more excuses left.
The scent from the kitchen was one of something frying, and her stomach growled.
“Might as well.” She gave her reflection one last look in the semi-fogged mirrors. Tired, red-rimmed eyes looked back at her. Rhiannon ran her palm over the woman in the mirror, spreading the condensation, erasing the evidence of her own fears, and made her way to the kitchen.
Pru was chopping vegetables, and Rhiannon had a feeling more of Ceridwen’s gifts were about to be shared. She sighed and sat down, too weary to argue about her sister.
The universe and its perverse sense of humor had a penchant to get Rhiannon’s goat. Pru plated a green salad along with some chicken and pushed the plate toward Rhiannon and slowly laid words in front of her like cards in solitaire.
“Ceri mentioned your wife.”
Rhiannon dropped her fork, which clattered with a dull kind of noise, more chaos than damage, and spread the olive-oil-drenched leaves all over her lap.
She took her time picking each and every single one from her bathrobe and from the floor.
Of course it had to be fucking Ceri.
“If you’d have told me about her, your sister wouldn’t have to. And I’m sorry for bringing her up, I know it’s technically none of my business, except for?—”
“She’s dead. There was never any need to bring her up.”
Rhiannon stood up and threw the salad leaves into the garbage. The water in the sink was still cold, the boiler having emptied from their shower, and she forced herself to keep her hands under the spray, to bite her lip and feel the chill run through her. And yet it wasn’t enough. For once, water betrayed her. Or was it twice?
It was the taste of blood, coppery and real, that brought her back. The only tangible reminder that unlike Margaux, she was alive. She stood still for a few more seconds, slowly weeding out the images of finding Margaux thirteen months ago from her mind, one by one, like tiny grass roots from the soil of her memory.
When she turned back, Pru’s eyes were filled with tears, and Rhiannon sighed, feeling like a complete cad, and gentled her tone.
“I guess Saint Ceridwen didn’t tell you that much.”
If she thought her tenderness would count for something, Pru gave her nothing in return.
“Does she even know? Does anyone?”
Rhiannon tilted her head and gave Pru a long look. Hair pulled back exposing the thin, pale face. The pink lips the only color and resoluteness the only expression. The stubborn set ofthe chin. The narrowing of the ashen eyes, full of loyalty. To Ceridwen, of all people. Her martyred sister.
Goddess, you and your games…
“Well, your father does. As for the others? I wouldn’t know. I kept it out of the papers.”
Rhiannon sat back down and forced herself to stab a piece of chicken. But when she brought it to her mouth, the scent hit her like a slap, nausea overwhelming her. This time she set the fork down slowly.
Pru watched the movement with wary eyes as if bracing herself. For what, Rhiannon didn’t know, but then she herself had no way of knowing what she’d do. What she’d say.
She pushed the plate away from and reached for the glass. Water again. And again, not doing anything for her. She drank anyway then just before she sat it down, it shattered in her hand with an annoying sound of uselessness.
Pru didn’t flinch, just forked a few more pieces of her chicken and chewed quietly, watching Rhiannon from under those dark lashes.
When her plate was empty, she took it to the sink, her movements precise and careful. Then she returned with a broom, setting it in front of Rhiannon.
“I’ll be in the bedroom, when you’re ready. Or when the glass is cleaned up. Whichever comes first.”
Rhiannon stood up and went to work.
The bedroom smelled like lemon balm, and it felt like another poke from Ceridwen. Rhiannon took in on the chin. She was old enough to know better and not nearly exhausted enough to blame it on the clawing beast inside her skin.
