16. Lucy
LUCY
It took a second and a half to hurt. Lucy had reached across the pan for the salt and laid the inside of her forearm down along the edge of it. For the first few seconds, she felt nothing at all. Then it hit her all at once, and there was a pink stripe two inches long on the inside of her arm.
She ran it under the cold tap for a slow count of sixty while the butter burned on the stove.
She poured it into the sink, wiped the pan, and started over.
She cracked four eggs into the pan and scrambled them.
Carrington hadn't eaten since lunch, and she had said it so flippantly, like it didn’t matter.
The refrigerator hummed against the far wall.
Nothing else in the room made a sound. Out past the glass, the path lights were on in the courtyard.
The blue binder was out with tomorrow's list from the chef folded under the corner of it.
Lucy had read that list at six, and by now, she could have recited it.
Carrington walked into the kitchen at ten to ten, still in the shirt she'd worn to her sister's house. She hadn't changed, which meant she hadn't planned on coming back down at all. The jacket was gone. One cuff was folded under to hide the seed dust in it, neatly, as though that fooled anybody.
"You didn't have to cook," Carrington said.
"I know," Lucy said. "You're getting food anyway."
Carrington stopped at the end of the island. She looked at the pan, then at Lucy’s arm. Then she was around the corner of the island with Lucy's wrist caught in both hands under the light.
Something crossed her face, gone before Lucy could name it. "When did you do this?"
"Ten minutes ago."
"There's a kit in the cupboard behind you."
"It's just a burn. It's been under the tap for a minute, and it'll be gone by Thursday.
" Lucy left her arm where it was. Carrington's thumb rested an inch clear of the pink mark, but Lucy could feel the heat off her hand anyway.
Lucy wanted to kiss her so badly her jaw ached.
"The pan won. I've made my peace with it. "
Carrington let go and laid both palms on the counter.
"Sit down," Lucy said.
Carrington sat on the stool at the corner of the island. Lucy slid the plate across with a fork beside it, then leaned her hip against the counter opposite. Carrington ate all four eggs in about four minutes, faster than she ate in front of anyone. She never mentioned the burn again.
"That was good," Carrington said.
"It was eggs."
"It was still good."
Lucy cleared the plate and rinsed it. Then she dried her hands, took the strawberries out of the refrigerator, and set the container on the marble with a paring knife and a board beside it.
"For Grace's lunch," Lucy said.
Carrington looked at the board for a second. "How does she like them?"
"Halves. Not quarters. And the green part off, all of it, or she won't touch any of them." Lucy leaned back against the sink. "She'll eat four, bring two home, and tell you she ate all six."
Carrington took her rings off and lined them up on the counter. Then she started on the strawberries, slowly, and cut every one of them to the same size. She rinsed her hands when she was finished and dried them on the towel Lucy had hung up. Then she pushed the stool back and stood up.
"I'm going to the study to work for an hour," Carrington said. "You should go to the cottage before the path lights go off. It's black out there after two."
Lucy shut the tap off. "You'll be in there four."
"No, only one."
"You've said you’d work an hour twice before. Both times, the lamp was still on at two." Lucy dried her hands and hung the towel on the oven rail. "Nothing on that desk will be different on Thursday."
"The meeting with the owner of the shop on Fenwick is tomorrow.
" Carrington became colder and more polite at once.
She only did that when she was about to lose an argument and hadn't admitted it to herself yet.
"Agatha has a forty-minute meeting with the owner, who had already turned down multiple offers.
There's a page from Devika I haven't read.
If I read it tonight, I can call Agatha at seven and brief her before she goes into the meeting.
If she gets it wrong, we don't get a second meeting.
That woman has been saying no to people like me since before I owned anything worth signing for. "
"That's a real reason," Lucy said.
"It's the only one I have."
"It's also not why you're going in there." Lucy walked around to the end of the island. "It's one page. Read it at half past six and call her at seven."
Carrington sat with her palms down on the counter.
She didn't answer. Lucy looked out the window and saw a moth was knocking against at the nearest path light, getting nowhere with it.
She looked back at Carrington, who tucked the stool back under the overhang with two fingers, said goodnight, and left through the hall.
Lucy stayed where she was, listening to her climb the stairs. Halfway up, Carrington stopped for four or five seconds, then she kept going.
She wiped down a counter that was already clean, stalling, and perfectly aware she was stalling. She rinsed the pan, left it on the rack, and checked the courtyard door like she did every night. Then she shut the stove light off.
She could have washed the pan and gone down to her own bed. She went up after her instead, uninvited. It was always Lucy who went up, and neither of them talked about that.
Lucy went up along the outside edge in her socks with a hand on the rail, and four steps short of the landing she stopped for no reason she could have defended to anybody. Then she went the rest of the way.
The landing boards were cold through her socks. Grace's door stood open a hand's width. Lucy stopped there until she'd counted three breaths. Then she went down the landing wanting her hands on Carrington so badly it made her clumsy, and she made herself walk the rest of it slowly.
Carrington was standing at the dresser. Three bobby pins were already out of her hair, lying in the dish. Her gaze met Lucy’s in the mirror, and she kept taking out pins.
"You'd have to be out before twenty to six," Carrington said. "The chef has a key to the courtyard, so she's in the house before you'd hear her."
"I know when she gets here."
"The gardeners also come on Wednesday. That's tomorrow."
"At the gate. Seven o'clock." Lucy pushed the door closed behind her, holding the handle down, and let it up slowly. "I worked all of it out on Sunday. I've run it in my head every night since. There's nothing left for you to handle."
Carrington had the fourth pin in her hand and stopped with it there. After a few seconds, she set the pin down in the dish. She didn't turn around. In the mirror, Lucy saw Carrington’s mouth had parted slightly.
"I can't remember the last time anybody did that for me," Carrington said.
Lucy didn't answer that. She moved in behind her and took the rest of the pins out herself, one at a time, dropping each one in the dish. Carrington's hair was heavier than it looked. Then Lucy took her by both shoulders and brought her around, and there was no resistance in her anywhere.
Lucy closed a hand over her wrist. Under her thumb, on the thin skin inside it, Carrington's pulse was hammering, and she didn't take her arm back.
"Go lie down," Lucy said.
Carrington looked at her. Her eyes were dark, and she wasn’t concealing anything.
She held Lucy's gaze for a long, quiet moment, and then she turned toward the bed.
Carrington sat on the edge of the bed and then shifted, drawing her legs up, her back against the headboard.
Her hair had fallen over one shoulder, thick and near-black against the pale collar of her blouse.
Lucy still stood at the foot of the bed, still wearing her jeans and the old T-shirt she'd had on all evening.
She watched Carrington against the headboard.
"Sit further back," Lucy said.
Carrington shifted until her shoulders met the wood of the headboard. Her knees were slightly bent, and her feet were flat on the sheets. She was still wearing the blouse and the tailored pants she'd had on at dinner, though she'd toed off her heels at some point and they were by the bedroom door.
Lucy came around to the side of the bed and sat on the edge of it, near Carrington's hip. The mattress dipped under her weight and Carrington's body adjusted to the slope of it, her knee falling slightly toward Lucy.
Lucy put her hand on Carrington's knee, her palm flat against the fabric.
She could feel the shape of the bone underneath, and Carrington didn't move.
She left her hand there long enough that she felt the muscle start to ease as Carrington stopped bracing.
Lucy's fingers moved along the top of the knee, down the outside of the shin, and back up to the thigh, where the fabric was taut over her muscle.
She pressed her thumb in slightly, and Carrington's breath changed.
She looked at her face. The sharp cheekbones caught the lamplight on one side. Her mouth was closed, lips slightly parted at the center. Her throat was bare, the top two buttons of her blouse opened. Lucy reached for the third.
She took her time with it and watched Carrington's face while she worked the button free. Lucy saw the moment Carrington's eyes dropped shut and then opened again, like she'd tried to close herself off and couldn't sustain it.
Fourth button. The blouse fell open to the base of her sternum.
The fabric parted, and Lucy could see the edge of her bra.
Lucy moved to the fifth button and then the sixth, and the blouse fell open entirely.
She pushed the fabric aside, off her shoulders, and Carrington let it go.
It pooled behind her against the headboard, half-on and half-off, and Lucy left it there.