I slide my finger over the edge of the pot, bringing away sauce and burnt skin. It was a silly mistake and I'll likely make a few more. Cooking is a pastime that I have the luxury of not partaking in. But considering the scraps humans make food from these days, I wanted to see what I got right.

A little less salt. I remembered my poor Sasha had cried at the taste. His chubby baby cheeks had been so honest. And Nathaniel had been so frustrated with me. I knew that he didn't marry me for my cooking, but the back gardens stank of ruined food which made me feel regretful. What did I bring to the humans if not trouble?

I licked the sauce from my finger and the animal blandness had me deem it finished. I set the covered pot aside on the center island with a final decision to keep it to myself and shut the grate on the cast iron stove to snuff the flames.

Collecting my nerves I took large plates from the standing cabinet and fished out cutlery from the drawer. My hands were full when the knock sounded and I sloppily left the stack of plates on the low living room table as I went to open the door. The tall man was a gentleman to be sure, but of those I saw many.

"So you are the artist friend," he said warmly.

"Do wipe your boots. The carpet is old," I told him simply.

"It looks that you have mistaken lunch for dinner," he chuckled. 

"Charles," Rita scolded as she shut the door. "This is not one of your friends."

I paused by the couch, standing tall.

"Oh, here I didn't think I would need to be so formal with a friend. I was going to suggest you sit beside me for I have the best stories."

"Why I...I... apologize."

"I'm sure. Rita," I held out my hand to her.

She looked cute in a fluffy pink dress and she blushed, perhaps from the shame of her husband. Rita took the arm of her Charles and led him to the couch beside herself. I let my arm fall and took a seat across, smoothing out my skirt.

Rita quietly resolved the distribution of plates and took her time selecting meats and cheeses from across the table. Charles opened a jar of jam. 

"These are pretty little plates," Rita said, as she selected a slice of bread.

"My uncle purchased one for each of our family members."

I used to trace the names scrawled on the back, wondering if anyone knew they were here.

"You use them for settings?" Charles asked curiously and he applied jam to bread.

"It's what plates are for."

"Interesting," Rita said. "Is your plate here?"

"No, I lost it."

When I had finally found a plate bearing my name I had wished uncle had never brought me here. There simply wasn't any meaning to being part of the set. I had slipped the plater under one of the flower pots and let it fade.

"How sad," Rita expressed.

"Sometimes, to love is to loose," I said as I picked apart a bit of roast chicken.

"How well put," Charles said.

He reached for the bottle of port and inspected the label.

"Well, I must apologize," he said. "You have good taste. Graham is our family favorite. The Portuguese know how to please."

"Yes, it's good luck to get his favorite," Rita said.

"Oh, what is your favorite?"

"A little sherry, right dear," Charles said, refilling his glass.

I stood to retrieve more from the kitchen. Rita stood to follow. She flipped the switch to the single dangling overhead bulb as I opened a back cabinet with the spirits.

"You don't have to," Rita said.

I turned holding a pinkish sherry.

"Oh." Rita observed the covered pot and approached to lift the lid. It was still slightly warm.

"White soup."

She dipped in a finger to taste.

"This tastes awful," she said. "I see why you served the rest."

"Thanks," I said.

"But I can fix this," Rita said.

She moved to open the fridge door and I caught it before it swung wide.

"Rita. I know you aren't proud of Charles, but we should go back out," I told her.

I gave her a smile despite the rapid beating of my heart. The fridge contained raw meat and vegetables from the soup. Yet I felt she might see right through me.

"You're right," Rita said, giving up on her attempts.

I handed her the bottle, which did make her smile. She returned with renewed energy.

"Look at what we found," Rita announced waving the bottle.

She poured herself a glass.

"So Evalyn," Charles asked. "How did you end up alone in this house?"

"My uncle moved to the countryside for his health."

"What about your siblings?"

It was a good question. I didn't know why my uncle bothered to leave me the names of family members I didn't know. I wasn't going to look for them, that was for sure.

"I guess they didn't get the notice."

"And you make your money from painting. I don't see any."

"You must visit Countess Daphne for my latest. I believe she hung it in the trophy room to give better context to her wildlife display."

That painting of a man gunned down by a woman was sure to make an impression. I watched Charles down the rest of his wine and expected him to call it a night, but he poured another. 

"Perhaps I can commission."

I swallowed another bit of chicken, too dry for my taste.

"Let's meet in the middle," I suggested. "You go home and think about what you want and I will wait for the details. Is that fair enough."

"Indeed," he said.

"Now," I said. "What do you do?"

I admit, Charles was interesting in his own right. He owned a shipping fleet. It seemed his family had transported everything from treasures to renowned explorers. 

Halfway through the current story, I saw Rita staring out the window. I placed my hand overtop hers and she looked to me. 

"I will call a coach," I told her. "I will see you on Monday. For class."