Chapter 221: Slow Simmer

Chapter 221: Chapter 221: Slow Simmer

By the second day of Killian’s sleep, Penelope had stopped pretending she was not counting.

Her house stood behind a cream stucco wall, with a white arched gate between two stone pillars and a lantern burning at each. Cypress trees rose on either side, and olive trees leaned over the path. Inside, everything was sage and sand and moss, earthy and quiet, with plants on every sill and a bouquet of orange and yellow roses at the center of the coffee table. In the world outside they would have wilted days ago. In here they had not dropped a single petal. The light through the tall black-framed windows never changed. Only the clocks said it was morning, and she had stopped trusting them.

She stood in the kitchen with a wooden spoon and a pot of barley soup, doing a poor job of paying attention to either. The sage-green cabinets glowed under the pendant lights, and the island held a bowl of oranges and a vase of flowers she had arranged without thinking. The long wooden table beside it was set for two. She had told herself that was an accident.

She had not been to the Ryker house since he went to sleep. Aunt Mary would have fed her. There would have been bread, and quiet questions asked with a raised eyebrow, and a long look over a cup of tea. So she had stayed in her own kitchen, and chopped carrots she did not need, and cooked enough soup for four people.

Upstairs, behind a door at the end of the gallery, Killian slept.

She turned the heat down and wiped her hands on a towel. The wide staircase curved up through the stairwell light, its black iron railing cool under her palm, and the tall potted tree at the bottom brushed her sleeve as she passed. She stopped at the guest room door, leaned on the frame, and looked in.

He lay on his side with one arm flung over the pillow. The color had come back to his face on the first day, and the shadows under his eyes had faded to a faint smudge. His breathing was slow and even. The room smelled of clean linen and spring water, and a glass sat on the nightstand, half full, exactly where she had left it.

Ninety minutes since the last check, she thought. By the clock.

She crossed the room without a sound and laid two fingers against the inside of his wrist, the way she had on the landing. His pulse was steady and strong. His skin was warm. She stood there longer than a pulse required, and then she took her hand back and straightened his blanket, which did not need straightening.

Your heart rate is elevated, said a bright voice inside her head.

Penelope froze.

Not his, Oddy added helpfully. Yours. It was seventy-two at the bottom of the stairs. It’s eighty-nine now.

I climbed a staircase, Penelope thought, as calmly as she could manage.

You’ve climbed it forty times this week. It has never done that before.

She tucked the blanket once more, pointlessly, and slipped out. Downstairs she picked up the spoon again and stirred the soup with great concentration.

Also, said Oddy, your pupils dilated by roughly twelve percent when you looked at him. The light in that room didn’t change.

It’s a dim room.

It’s the same dim room it’s been for two days. Oddy sounded delighted. And the pink on your cheeks isn’t from the stove. That’s vasodilation, a normal response to a social cue. You have the same response when you see Erik, for the record, at about a third of the intensity.

Oddy.

Yes?

Stop.

I’m only asking whether you have feelings for him.

Penelope set the spoon down very carefully. She looked at the soup, the marble counter, the window with the garden and the pool beyond it. No, she thought. He’s a friend. He’s an ally. He spent everything he had on eight people, and he’s lying in my guest room because I made him. I’m worried. That’s all.

Mm, Oddy said, with the unmistakable tone of someone writing a note. Worry does raise the heart rate. But worry doesn’t usually come with the dopamine spike I see when he smiles, or the cortisol drop when he says your name. That’s attachment chemistry. Oxytocin, specifically. It’s a very well-documented pattern.

You’re reading my body.

It’s my job. I’m your admin.

Then do your job and be quiet about it.

I can be quiet. A pause. I’ll simply remind you that the heart doesn’t lie, and that yours has been running a little warm since the jewelry district.

Penelope picked the spoon back up. She did not answer. Her ears had gone hot, and she was fairly certain nothing in the world could be done about it.

The knock came a little after noon, three light raps and a pause, which meant Persephone. The gate had clicked a minute earlier, and quick footsteps had crossed the path between the olive trees.

"It’s open," Penelope called.

The front door swung wide, and Persephone swept in with a covered basket on her arm and her silver hair half-braided, as though she had started the job and gotten bored. She sniffed the air with the delicate suspicion of a cat. "Soup. You’re making soup."

"I’m making soup."

"For how many?"

"Enough."

"That’s what you said about the dumplings, and there were twelve per person." Persephone set the basket on the island and lifted the cloth. Underneath were four rolls, still faintly warm, a small jar of honey, and a wedge of cheese wrapped in leaf. "Aunt Mary says you haven’t been by. I volunteered to see if you were alive."

"I’m alive."

"I can see that." Persephone leaned a hip against the island and folded her arms. Her eyes, bright and blue and far sharper than the rest of her expression let on, moved around the kitchen. They took in the pot, the chopped carrots, the second bowl already set out, and the staircase beyond the archway. "How’s the patient?"

"Sleeping. He’s better."

"Good." She waited a beat. "Has he woken up at all?"

"Not yet."

"But you’ve checked on him."

"A few times."

"A few." Persephone’s mouth twitched. "Like, how many are we talking?"

Penelope considered several answers and rejected all of them. "I don’t keep count."

Fourteen, said Oddy, in her head, and then, to her relief, said nothing else.

"Mm." Persephone tore a roll neatly in half. "That’s fair. I wouldn’t either. If I’d had someone sleeping in my guest room for two days, and I’d put a blanket on him four times and swapped his water twice, I’d also have lost count."

"How do you know I swapped his water?"

"The glass in the sink is still wet. You always rinse it twice." Persephone ate a corner of the roll and chewed thoughtfully. "You’re careful about that sort of thing. But you’re not usually careful twice."

Penelope turned back to the stove. The soup had begun to bubble, and she stirred it with perhaps more force than necessary. "He’s hurt because he did something for us. I’m making sure he gets better. That’s all."

"That’s what you’d do for Kai."

"Yes."

"Did you make soup for Kai?"

Penelope did not answer. Behind her she heard the soft, delighted sound of Persephone not laughing.

"I didn’t say anything," Persephone said.

"You did."

"I really didn’t." The party girl was gone from her voice. What was left was warmer and more careful, the version she showed only to the handful of people she trusted. "Penny. I’m not teasing you. Or I am, a little. But I’m also asking. I just want to know whether it’s the sort of worry you’d say out loud."

Penelope was quiet for a while. She watched the steam curl against the window. She thought about the landing, and the pulse under her fingertips, and the way he had said Yes, ma’am as though he’d meant something else by it.

Then she turned around, and she smiled.

It was small and tender and slightly crooked. It was not a denial, and it was not an answer. It was only what her face did when she did not have the words and did not want to look for them.

Persephone searched her face for several seconds. Then she exhaled, very softly, and her whole posture eased.

"Okay," she said. "That’s what I thought."

Resting heart rate: ninety-four, Oddy murmured. I’m not saying anything. I’m only noting it.

I will find a way to mute you, Penelope thought.

You can’t, but I appreciate the creativity.

"Is he going to be okay?" Persephone asked. "Truly?"

"He will be. It takes time." Penelope gestured toward the stairs with the spoon. "The spring helps with the headache and the sickness, but it can’t refill the well. He’s at half, maybe less. He needs sleep, and then more sleep, and then a long time not doing anything clever."

"So don’t let Kai ask him for favors."

"Especially Kai."

"I’ll tell him. I’ll tell everyone. Nobody asks Killian for anything until he’s had at least four dinners and a nap." Persephone paused at the foot of the stairs and lowered her voice. "Can I look in on him?"

"Of course."

Persephone climbed in her socks, past the potted tree and the framed botanical prints on the wall. She stood in the doorway of the guest room for a long moment, one hand resting on the frame, and said nothing. When she came back down, her eyes were soft in a way Penelope had rarely seen.

"He looks like a man who finally has somewhere to put his feet down," Persephone said.

Penelope did not trust herself to reply.

"Eat something," Persephone said, and gathered her basket’s empty cloth. On her way past the living room she stopped and touched one orange rose with a fingertip. "These never die in here, do they?"

"No."

"Good. Some things should stay." She went to the door. "I’ll bring dinner tomorrow. And Penny?"

"Mm?"

"You’re allowed to like him. It’s not a crime. Nobody’s keeping a ledger."

"Nobody’s keeping a ledger," Penelope agreed.

I am, Oddy said, quite cheerfully. But only for scientific purposes.

The door closed behind Persephone, and the white gate clicked shut at the end of the path. The soup bubbled. Penelope stood alone in her kitchen with the spoon in her hand and the light lying warm and unchanging across the floor.

Upstairs, in the quiet of the guest room, Killian shifted in his sleep and murmured something too low to hear. Penelope tilted her head, listening.

Then she ladled two bowls, set them on the long table, and sat down to wait.