When I was a kid, my grammy used to fool me with this ridiculous mom joke in the form of a fairytale she called “Amythyst Cloud.”

It was about a beautiful rain goddess who ‘fed the rivers with her tears and the lakes with the sorrows of her heart.’ And I would listen mesmerized as she described the way she wept diamonds from beautiful gray-blue eyes and imagine I could see her sunshine-gold hair growing dark in the fading daylight until I was practically shivering on the edge of the seat.

Then I’d ask her, “Can I meet the rain goddess, Grammy? Can I go see her someday?”

And she’d laugh in her thick accent, the Welsh slurring with the French she spoke more frequently, “Of course, you can, cyw. But go deliver these aprons to Mrs. Rayford first.”

She never ‘remembered’ to take me to visit the ‘goddess,’ so it took me almost 9 years to get it.

***

All the cookies are out of the oven now, but the guys still haven’t reappeared and the whether is only getting colder every second.

Mrs. George has brought space heater into the dining room, but it seems to be taking its own sweet time about warming things up, if it’s affects are just a placebo altogether.

I can’t tell whether these goosebumps are from worry or cold.

I hope for Mr. George and Christopher’s sake that the water isn’t running slowly through the pipes again, but in this sort of weather, it might even be frozen. I can only imagine what it would be like to stand there, half frozen and three-quarters dirty beneath a slow, drippy trickle of barely melted ice water.

That would probably be bordering on actual torture.

Mrs. George has made her way over with the last tray of chocolate chip cookies, still hot out of the oven, and sets it down on two cast iron trivets that I’ve been told are supposed to look like butterflies but remind me a lot more of vampire moths.

“Let’s pick the nicest ones before the boys get here shall we?” Therese laughs, slipping a few cookies onto apple-shaped porcelain plate for me, alongside a left over gougere, “Chocolate chip cookies are always best when they’re ooey-gooey and hot.”

I smile my agreement because I don’t trust my tongue, and quickly take a bite to plug my yapper.

“They’re good,” I say as quickly as I can without sounding insincere.

All I can see is the shakiness of her hands.

I know she sees me watching her, but she decides not to comment on it until she’s plopped down in the seat across from me and passed me a big mug of mulled cider.

“Do you like spicy things?” She squints at me in surprise when I take my first sip without hesitation. “Some people I know aren’t big fans of allspice and clove.”

“My grammy used to use a lot of spices. She used to make mulled cider too, but hers was blueberry cider. It was weird.”

I fake a shudder, sticking my tongue out with a sparkly laugh and she smiles back in acknowledgment, her nose wrinkling like she’s trying not to laugh back at me.

“Ahh, blueberry cider. I tried that once. Just…no.”

She shakes her head with a sigh as she takes her first sip of cider, and I try my best not to let my smile waver.

I’m starting to feel like Judith.

I’ve already spilled so much by accident that my only good remaining option is to make them think I tell them everything and CAN’T keep any secrets  - wouldn’t even try to. Act careless - even more careless than I am anyway - and loose-lipped - so they assume that I’ll never suspect them of anything.

Otherwise, I’ve already sealed my fate.

“I’ve always preferred cider cold,” I say to keep the silence from settling, “It’s more refreshing that way, I think.”

“Mm true,” she nods slowly, “I think I’m just drawn to hot drinks on nights like this because it soothes my achiness a bit.” 

She shakes her head, smiling despite the steady tremble of her left arm. Then suddenly she chuckles slightly, almost to herself. I look at her curiously and she sighs as if debating whether to share her thoughts or not.

The unbandaged hand strays to her hair again and begins fiddling with a single reddish-brown tress.

 “When I was…younger,” she starts slowly, “Before my little monster was born, I used to mix rum with the cider. I can’t stand the headaches now but it was…my evil way.”

I raise my eyebrows at her statement and think how scandalized Grammy and Mrs. Rayford would pretend to be at such a confession, though I know Mrs. Rayford would try it in private just to see if it improved the taste.

The…taste…

Mrs. George is still coiling her hair around her fingers, but her eyes are on the table cloth and I notice that she hasn’t eaten or drunk anything in quite a few minutes.

If I was going to be kidnapped, wouldn’t the best place to hide a drug be in a spiced drink of some kind?

But I don’t smell anything out of the ordinary.

“I never told Mr. George but I’m sure he could taste it, though he didn’t say anything. I was a very bad butterfly.”

She laughs, so I laugh, but I’m too distracted -  my head spinning with an attempt to decipher every scent in the room - to really be able to think up a response to what she said.

Cinnamon, clove, allspice. Star anise.

“Why do you call yourself a butterfly?” 

It’s the first thing that comes to mind, but she starts shaking her head before the words have left my lips, laughing again.

“That’s what you all call an inside joke, ma choupette. There was a song my Mr. George used to like about a woman who was like a butterfly, and we listened to it a lot when we were first married.”

Her words trail off for a moment, her eyes focused on the tablecloth as if it’s a video screen into the past.

“That was a long time ago now,” she says quietly, almost like that’s a bad thing, “I can’t remember the year when the song came out anymore. I’m such an old fossil, you know?”

She smiles ever so slightly, hiding her teeth with her lips to make herself look like she’s taken out false teeth and I smile half-heartedly in response.

Something is very wrong here.

Her eyes stay on the tablecloth.

“36 is hardly old enough to consider a fossil,” I offer in what I hope is an encouraging tone, “You’re barely even middle-aged.”

“Ahh, but age is a funny thing, my sweet,” she laughs in a whisper, “Sometimes we think we’ll never grow old. Sometimes we grow old in an instant.”

“This funny arm,” she sighs extending her left arm, and it immediately begins trembling with the effort it takes to stay raised, “This hasn’t been my friend since I was 23? 24 years old maybe? Sometime around there. It’s moments like that when I know I won’t live forever.”

She lowers the arm again and rests her bandaged hand in her lap with a look so defeated, and resigned to that defeat that it scares me. I want to say something encouraging or funny but I can’t think of anything but questions, and I know better than to ask about something so serious.

It was always an unspoken rule, back in Iris Wood.

Several of the Rayfords had unusual scars that nobody talked about. 

Hilaire’s was the most obvious.

But why would we talk about scars - do anything but pretend we couldn’t see the scars?

They only fade if we can forget about them.

“We always hope we’ll be beautiful until our dying days, yes?” Therese smiles at my soberness.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Therese smiles a little sadly and her eyes squint into little lines that remind me of a red fox. Her hand reaches out and cradles my cheek.

I should move back, or away, but I don’t.

“You’re still so pretty though. Do you really need to cover up your face with makeup sometimes just because of some vitiligo?”

I feel my skin turn to ice immediately, and my shoulders rise in violent discomfort.

“Yeah, I…prefer to keep it covered,” I say quickly, shrugging away from her touch.

She opens her mouth like she wants to say something but out of nowhere, the kitchen timer begins ringing.

“Ope, now that ridiculous thing decides to ring,” she sighs chastizingly, pushing back her seat and making her way to the counter.

The second her back is turned I try to rub the feeling of her hand off my cheek, but it still feels like she’s holding my face, the way that Grammy and Mrs. Rayford used to. The way I imagine a mother would if I could remember having a mother.

I wish…I was allowed to like that feeling.

But I’m not supposed to trust.

Period.

What I wouldn’t give to be a normal foster kid living with strangers under normal circumstances other people would understand. I lost my dad. I lost my mother. I just got lost.

Not this sea of ambiguity and questions I’ll probably never know the answer to and I’d never be allowed to talk about even if I did.

I glance toward the living room windows where the boards block out the sunlight, if there even is sunlight, and think about smoke.

I w-

Something crashes so violently the house seems to shake and feel my teeth rattle in my head amidst the sound of splintering wood.

“What on earth is that?!” I hear Verner George shout from the top of the stairs and Therese looks from the boarded window to the back door before answering, “I think one of the trees fell!”

But she’s not looking in the direction the sound came from. 

She’s looking north.