Chapter 4 – Sage
The guest room is cold. Not unbearably so, but enough that I can't quite get comfortable under the quilt. I lie in the darkness, listening to the cabin settle.
Sleep feels impossible. My mind keeps circling back to dinner, the moment everything shifted.
I pull the quilt tighter, but the chill has settled into my bones. I should have asked for those extra blankets he mentioned, but after everything, pride stopped me.
I slide out of bed, wincing as my bare feet hit the cold wooden floor, and make my way to the small fireplace in the corner of the room.
It's been prepared but not lit—kindling and logs arranged with the same precise care Silas seems to bring to everything.
There's a box of matches on the mantle, and I strike one, touching it to the kindling.
It catches immediately, small flames licking at the dry bark.
But within minutes, it's clear something isn't right. Instead of drawing up the chimney, smoke begins to curl into the room. I fiddle with what I assume is a flue, but the smoke only thickens. My eyes begin to water as I try to figure out what I'm doing wrong.
There must be something blocking the chimney. Or maybe it needs to be opened from elsewhere. Either way, this isn't working.
I quickly stamp out the budding fire before the room fills completely with smoke, burning my palm on a hot ember in the process. The sharp pain makes me gasp. In the dim light, I can see an angry red mark across my palm, already starting to blister.
"Perfect," I mutter, moving to the small adjoining bathroom to run cold water over the burn. It stings fiercely under the stream, and I bite my lip to keep from making noise. The last thing I want is to wake Silas and confirm whatever opinion he's formed about my competence.
"What are you doing?"
I startle, nearly hitting my head on the cabinet above the sink. Silas stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the darkness of the bedroom. I hadn't heard him approach, but now he fills the small space with his presence, suddenly very real and very close.
"Sorry," I say automatically. "I was trying to light the fireplace, but there seems to be a problem with the chimney. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"I never use that fireplace," he says, stepping closer. "The chimney's capped. I should have mentioned it."
He reaches past me to turn off the tap, his arm brushing mine in the confined space. Even that brief contact sends warmth spreading up my skin.
"Let me see," he says, nodding toward my hand.
"It's fine. Just a small burn."
"Let me see," he repeats, more firmly this time.
I extend my palm reluctantly. His hands are large, but unexpectedly gentle as he examines the burn in the dim bathroom light.
"Wait here," he says, disappearing briefly before returning with a small jar. "This will help."
"What is it?" I ask as he unscrews the lid.
"Comfrey salve. With maple and beeswax." A hint of his earlier dry humor returns. "One of my side projects."
He takes my hand again, applying the salve with precision. It's cool against the hot skin, the scent subtle and medicinal. The pain begins to ease almost immediately.
"Thank you," I say, watching his face as he works. In the dim light, his features seem softer, less guarded than earlier. "I'm sorry about the smoke. And for waking you."
"You didn't wake me." He finishes with the salve, but doesn't immediately release my hand. "I was checking the fire. The temperature's dropping faster than forecast."
We stand there for a moment, my hand still resting in his, neither of us quite ready to break the contact. Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he steps back.
"That room gets the worst of the draft," he says. "You should come back to the living room. It's warmer by the fire."
It's not a suggestion. He's already turning, expecting me to follow, which I do after grabbing the quilt from the bed. The living room is indeed warmer, the fire built up higher than when I left. The contrast makes me realize just how cold I'd been.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the couch nearest the hearth. "I'll make tea."
I settle into the corner of the couch, pulling the quilt around my shoulders. From this vantage point, I can watch him move around the kitchen area. He's changed into flannel pants and a worn shirt, feet bare on the wooden floor.
"Your hand will be fine," he says as he waits for the kettle to boil. "First degree, barely second in one spot. Keep the salve on overnight."
"Are you a doctor as well as a chef and syrup maker?" I ask, the hint of teasing in my voice surprising me.
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. "You spend enough time in kitchens, you learn to treat burns."
"True." I flex my fingers, testing the pain. Already it's dulled to a manageable throb. "This stuff works well. You should sell it alongside your syrup."
"Maybe." He pours hot water into two mugs. "I make it mostly for myself. Hadn't considered a market for it."
"There's always a market for things made with care," I say, echoing his earlier observation about cooking.
He brings the mugs over, handing one to me before settling at the opposite end of the couch. The tea is fragrant, lightly sweetened with what I recognize as his maple syrup.
"Thank you," I say, holding the mug between both hands, absorbing its warmth. "For this. And for not lecturing me about trying to light a capped fireplace."
"Would a lecture have helped?" he asks dryly.
"Probably not." I smile into my tea. "I've never been good at taking direction. Ask my father."
As soon as I say it, I regret mentioning my father. Silas's expression doesn't change, but I sense the slight tensing of his shoulders, the way his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around his mug.
"Sorry," I say quickly. "I know you don't want to talk about him."
He's quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. "It's not that," he says finally. "It's complicated."
"Most important things are." I take a sip of tea, giving him space.
"You have his stubborn streak," Silas says suddenly. "And his hands."
I glance down at my long fingers, square palms. Chef's hands, my father always said. "People usually say I look like my mother."
"You do. But your mannerisms, the way you move in a kitchen—that's all David."
There's something in his voice when he says my father's name—not bitterness exactly, but a complexity that speaks of history, of things unresolved.
"He taught me to cook," I say. "But I also studied your recipes. Everyone did, at culinary school. Your approach to regional ingredients was revolutionary."
He makes a dismissive sound. "That was a lifetime ago."
"Good work endures," I counter. "I still use your technique for reducing maple gastrique. The one with the cider vinegar and pink peppercorns."
A flicker of surprise crosses his face. "You remember that specifically?"
"Of course. It was in your second book, the one about northeastern ingredients. I practically memorized it." I hesitate, then add, "Dad has a first edition. Signed."
He looks away, back toward the fire. "Like I said. A lifetime ago."
We sit in silence for several minutes, drinking tea, the only sounds the crack and hiss of the fire and the persistent howl of the wind.
"You should sleep," he says eventually. "It's late."
"Probably," I agree, though sleep feels far away. "What about you?"
"I'll stay up a while longer. Make sure the fire stays hot enough to keep the pipes from freezing. I'll get you another blanket."
He rises, moving to a chest near the wall, and returns with a thick woolen blanket that he drapes over me with unexpected care. His hand brushes my shoulder in the process, a touch so brief it might have been accidental.
"Thank you," I say, looking up at him. In the firelight, his eyes are darker, the lines of his face softened.
He nods once, then returns to his place at the other end of the couch.