Chapter Seven
Lula woke before thelight and slipped out of bed without waking Sebastian.
She went straight to the stove.The fire was low, so she added kindling and set water on to heat.It was a routine now.Simple.Familiar.
She measured out the oatmeal without thinking.Then she stopped.
The letter was still on the table.
She wiped her hands and picked it up again.She had already read it twice.She read it again anyway.
Her father was dead.All will be forgiven.Lula folded the letter and tucked it into her apron.
The kettle rattled behind her.She turned back, poured the oats in, and stirred.Her mind drifted anyway.New York.Her parents.Bill.
The spoon scraped the bottom of the pot.
She frowned.The oatmeal was too thick already.She added a little more water and stirred harder.
She reached for the cinnamon—and stopped.After a moment, she left it where it was.She couldn’t force her mind to concentrate on cooking.The letter had truly rattled her.
The bed creaked behind her.“You’re up early,” Sebastian said.
“I woke,” she said.“Thought I’d get breakfast started.”
He dressed without much talking.She could feel him watching her, but she didn’t turn around.
“You sleep well?”he asked.
“Well enough.”She shrugged.“You?”
“Well enough.”
She stirred the oatmeal again, though it didn’t need it.
“Do you need help?”he asked.
“No.I’ve got it.”
