Chapter Six
Declan
The container of flour showing up next to the Folgers shouldn’t have surprised me.
It did.
So did the eggs in the wire basket, the glass bottle of milk in the icebox, and the square of butter wrapped in waxed paper. I stood in Grandpa’s kitchen with both cabinet doors open, staring at enough ingredients to keep a promise.
If they’d been there before, I would have noticed them. Probably.
Time had not become more cooperative since Avena left.
The clock still read 6:12. The fire still burned without settling into ash.
I could drink three cups of coffee or none and feel exactly as awake either way.
For all I knew, the flour had been there for an hour, a week, or the time it took me to turn around. Dreams were funny like that.
Still, the ingredients had appeared after I told Avena we would make pancakes.
“Subtle,” I told the cabin.
The cabin declined to explain itself.
I pulled Grandpa’s cast-iron skillet from beneath the stove.
Its handle was blackened and familiar in my hand.
The bottom was worn smooth from years of use and the pan looked perfectly seasoned.
He had cooked everything in that pan—eggs, fish, chili when the good pot cracked, and enough pancakes to build a respectable wall.
Waiting had become the only measurable thing here. Not in minutes. In trips to the window. In cups of coffee. In the number of times I checked the path and found only our old footprints filling slowly with new snow.
On my fourth look, silver-white hair moved between the pines. I had the door open before Avena reached the porch.
She stopped on the bottom step and I thought I saw pleasure play across her serene features. “You were watching for me.”
“I was checking the weather. You just happened to be there, too.”
Her luminous eyes moved past me to the windows. “The weather appears unchanged.”
“That’s what I was checking.”
“You found flour.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Actually, it found me.”
“These were not here before?” she said.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t know?”
“The kitchen and I weren’t close until you gave me a reason to inspect it.”
“I thought we’d make pancakes first,” I said. “Then you can destroy what’s left of my confidence at chess.”
“Delaying the game will not alter the result.”
“It might improve my attitude.”
“That seems unlikely.”
I turned back to the counter. “Wash your hands.”
“They are clean.”
“That’s what everyone says before they cook.”
She held them up. “I completed a cleansing cycle before I arrived.”
“Humor me.”
“Now what?” she asked.
“We mix the dry ingredients.”
I reached for the flour. She stopped me with one raised hand.
“How much?”
“About two cups.”
“About?”
“Two cups.”
“You changed your answer without changing the amount.”
“I changed my confidence.”
That didn’t reassure her.
“How much salt?”
“A pinch.”
“That is not a unit of measurement I am familiar with.”
“It is in this kitchen.”
“But your fingers are larger than mine. Therefore, your ‘pinch’ will be bigger than mine.”
“Then your pancakes will have less salt.”
She stared at me until I found the measuring spoons.
“One quarter teaspoon,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“Grandpa never needed this much paperwork to make breakfast.”
“There is no paperwork.”
“Give it time.”
She went still.
“No witnesses. It doesn’t count.”
“You witnessed it.”
“I can be bought.”
“With what?”
“Pancakes.”
Her mouth shifted. “That logic appears circular.”
“Most good breakfast foods are.”
“When it looks right,” I said.
“What does right look like?”
“Like that,” I said, stepping back.
Fast.
“Easy.” I caught the side of the bowl before it turned on the counter. “You’re making breakfast, not punishing it.”
“There are unmixed portions.”
“Leave some lumps.”
The spoon stopped. “Intentionally?”
“If you work the batter too much, the pancakes get tough.”
She looked into the bowl. “Incomplete mixing creates the preferred result?”
“In this case.”
“That is illogical.”
“Breakfast has its own rules.”
“Established by children?”
“Probably the same ones who invented rock, paper, scissors.”
“The pan is ready when a drop of water dances,” I said.
“Water does not dance.”
“That is how water dances,” I said.
“The water underwent rapid vaporization.”
“You make everything sound so festive.”
“That is not round,” Avena said.
“The first pancake never is.”
“Why?”
“The cook and the pan are negotiating.”
Her gaze slid toward me. “Your grandfather told you that.”
“Every Saturday morning.”
“He taught you when you were a child?” Avena asked.
“Yeah. I was terrible at it.”
“Why did he continue?”
I watched bubbles open across the pancake. “Because children are terrible at nearly everything until somebody lets them practice.”
“Was he not concerned about waste?”
“He made me eat the mistakes.”
“As punishment?”
“As breakfast,” I answered, grinning. “Grandpa had never used a written recipe. He measured flour with the same chipped mug he drank from and judged the batter by the way it fell from the spoon. The first time I tried to copy him, I added twice the milk and turned breakfast into paste.”
“Did he become angry?” Avena asked.
“No. He just opened another bag of flour.”
“He rewarded the error with additional materials?”
“He gave me what I needed to fix it.”
“Without consequence?”
I thought about that. “I cleaned the counter, the floor, and the cabinet where the bowl landed. Grandpa didn’t care if I got something wrong. He cared if I left the mess for somebody else.”
Avena looked toward the pancake on the plate. “He permitted failure but required responsibility.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Hmm, it is a useful distinction.”
“Don’t tell him that. He’ll think you’re calling him sensible.”
Her eyes moved briefly toward Grandpa’s empty recliner. “Would he object?”
“On principle.”
She considered that longer than I expected.
“See?” I said. “Negotiations complete.”
“The pan accepted uneven terms.”
“It respected my authority.”
“You burned the edge.”
“Respect takes time.”
“Your turn.”
“Show-off.”
“I followed the procedure.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“The result will be edible.”
“You’re flipping a pancake, not breaching a door,” I said.
“I have never breached a door.”
“Then I’m glad you dressed for the possibility.”
She looked down at herself, then back at me. “My clothing is not designed for forced entry.”
“The boots argue against that.” I nodded toward the pan. “Go ahead.”
She did.
I tried not to laugh. I honestly did.
“The required force was poorly described,” she said.
I picked the pancake off the cabinet and dropped it onto the first plate.
“You intend to serve that?” she asked.
“You made it, you eat it.”
“It made contact with a vertical surface.”
“Adds character.”
“That is what your grandfather said about the porch.”
“He was a consistent man.”
She took the spatula again. “I will attempt another.”
“Less attempted murder this time.”
We built a stack between us. Mine were uneven. Hers became more precise with each attempt until the last one looked like it had been drawn with a compass.
“They all taste the same,” I told her.
“Then why not make them the same?”
“So you know a person made them.”
The shallow white bowl beside them was new.
Dark violet fruit filled it, each piece smaller than a plum and shaped like a narrow teardrop.
The skin held a faint silver sheen. Avena reached for one, knowing exactly how to open it.
Her thumbnail found a seam I hadn’t noticed.
The skin separated cleanly, revealing translucent violet sections around a pale center.
“You’ve seen those before,” I said.
Her hand paused. “Yes.”
“What are they?”
“Fruit.”
“I got that far.”
She looked at the open piece in her palm. “The name would not mean anything to you.”
“Where did you have it?”
“At home.”
“Before you came here?”
“This morning.”
I looked at the bowl again. “I’ve never seen one.”
“Perhaps you have forgotten.”
“Maybe.”
Avena placed two sections beside her pancakes. “I had them at my morning meal.”
“And now they’re in Grandpa’s kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“Did you bring them here?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Is it safe?” I asked.
“For me.”
I lowered it.
Avena’s eyes widened slightly. “That was humor.”
My eyes widened at her before my lips twitched. “You’re getting dangerous.”
“It is safe for you as far as I know.”
“Much better.”
“Well?” she asked.
“It tastes purple.”
“Purple is not a flavor.”
“Now you understand how I feel when you call weather moderate.”
“That is an excessive amount of sugar.”
“Correct.”
“You agree?”
“I’m not trying to deceive you. I’m trying to feed you something delicious.”
“That good?” I asked.
“I am gathering sufficient information.”
“Of course you are.”
“What?” she asked.
I pointed to my own cheek. “You’ve got some flour right there.”
She wiped the wrong side.
“Other one.”
She missed again. I laughed and handed her the towel. “For someone who can read every move I make in chess, you’re terrible at this.”
“Your directions lack precision.”
“Seems like a recurring problem I have.”
“Did you make these only with your grandfather?” she asked.
I cleared my throat and took a sip of coffee before I answered. “Mostly. Saturday mornings were ours.”
“Was there a scheduled purpose?”
“Breakfast.”
“Nothing else?”
“He’d read the paper. I’d complain about school. Sometimes we wouldn’t talk at all.”
“And that was sufficient?”
“More than sufficient. They’re some of my favorite memories.”
She looked down at her plate. “My morning instruction began at seven.”
“Seven years old or seven in the morning?”
“Both, on the appropriate days.”
“That sounds cheerful.”
“It was considered an excellent program.”
“Were you allowed to make mistakes?”
“Mistakes were identified and corrected.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Avena traced one finger along the edge of her fork. “There was little value in allowing an error to continue.”
“What happened when you made one anyway?”
She took time to answer. “It was identified. The cause was examined. Corrective instruction followed.”
“Every time?”
“That was the purpose of instruction.”
“Sounds exhausting and not at all a fun way to learn.”
“It was efficient.”
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
The light beneath her wrists stirred and faded. “No. I am beginning to understand that.”
“Sometimes the value is finding out you can try again,” I said.
Her eyes lifted to mine.
I shrugged. “Or learning how hard it is not to flip a pancake.”
The seriousness in her face loosened. “Your instructional method remains poorly designed.”
“Yet we made tasty pancakes. You ate three.”
“Would you make them again?” she asked.
“Anytime.”
“Then they may qualify.”
“As your favorite?”
“Further evaluation is required.”
“I walked into that one.”
My smile disappeared.
“Already,” I said.
“Time remains an unreliable measurement here.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with me.”
“There is no evidence that such a quantity exists.”
For half a second, I forgot the room was disappearing. Her outline flickered. I wanted to take her hand. I wanted to ask where home was, what she did when she woke, who had decided a child should never be allowed an error. I wanted answers, but more than that, I wanted her to come back.
So I asked the question that mattered.
“Next time?”
“Yes.” Her gaze moved to the stacked plates and the ruined pancake that even we had refused to eat. “But I will control the skillet.”
“That feels like a threat.”
“It is an accurate allocation of responsibility.”
The familiar phrase made me smile. “Bring your fruit.”
Confusion crossed her face. “I did not bring it.”
Before I could answer, light passed through her. For one second, she stood on the other side of the table, bright and impossible.
Then she was gone.
The room settled. Fire returned to the hearth. Her plate remained empty. The fork lay neatly across it. Flour still marked the floor near the cabinet.
The bowl of violet fruit still sat beside the syrup.
I picked up one piece and turned it between my fingers. I’d never seen anything like it. Avena had eaten it that morning somewhere outside this cabin, and somehow it had followed her here.
If this was my dream, why did it remember things that belonged to her?