89 Kitchen gossip

**Date = 8 August**
*Sad days pass more slowly than others.*
**Place = San Francisco (Black Pit)**
*Everyone’s settled in.*

**POV - Aria**

Drawn on by the scent of roasted garlic and warm bread, I slide down the hall. The huge farmhouse kitchen feels almost too small for the crowd of women packed inside, sleeves rolled up, hands busy with dough and spoons and secrets. It’s alive with chatter — the kind that rises and falls like music between bursts of laughter.
Some are young, faces glowing with mischief — others move more slowly, practiced and sure — all under the sharp eyes of Rosa, the matriarch of this warm, flour-dusted kingdom. Pies cool on the windowsill, pastries brown in the oven, pots simmer on the stove, and gossip fills every space the scent of baking doesn’t.

“You must be careful,” I hear Lili’s great-grandma, Alice, caution gently. “You kids are a little wild.”
She’s Alberto Garcia’s mother. And also Ash Blackburn’s grandmother. The widow of George.
I don’t know the full sad story — just the sharp-edged version Enrique blabbered out during pillow talk. But no matter how you look at it, Uncle Ash was born under horrific circumstances. A true-crime nightmare, really.
Alexander kidnapped a very young Liliana Garcia — Alberto’s sister. And I mean young … like in thirteen … fourteen. Raped her. Held her captive. Made her carry his child, then murdered her. Poor girl has never even seen high school.
All just to breed an heir to both sides of the coin, so to speak — Alexander George Blackburn Junior. Now Ash. Can’t blame him for wanting a new name.
And this mother found her daughter’s corpse where she was left by Alexander, like a grotesque offering. With no idea what really happened to her.
Until Ash came into the picture with the truth — a man built from bruises and bad choices, surviving on the edges of a life that never felt like his own. Raised by the streets, not by love, he’d grown up with gangsters instead of guardians, learned to fight before he learned to trust. Bred for a purpose, he was surviving on hate, booze, and sex.
Alexander died, and with him, Ash’s whole purpose of existence.
But Lili changed everything — she was the first good thing he’d ever done.
So he left the streets behind — all of it — and sought out the family that didn’t even know he existed. He found his purpose. And everything he never had.
Love.
And now, Alice — a great-grandmother who lost a child in the worst way imaginable — sits at the kitchen table, peeling apples for pie as if she hasn’t walked through hell. With the softest voice, the gentlest touch, the kind of warmth that wraps around you like a shawl.
She’s everything a Nanna should be. Patient and strong in a way that doesn’t shout.
But I understand her fear. I live with it too. I look at Leyla sometimes and wonder — what if I turn my back for two seconds? What if the wrong person sees her? What if a monster takes her for breeding? What if she walks over the street and a car comes that doesn’t stop?
These days, that fear feels less like paranoia and more like instinct. Survival. After all that’s happened … how can it not? All those nasty things actually happened to this family.
“Oh, Nanna, you can be such a prune sometimes,” Lili teases, tugging Alice’s sleeve.
Alice laughs, tucking a curl behind Lili’s ear. “It comes with age and wisdom, monkey.”
“And joint pain,” Rosa chimes in, wielding a rolling pin like a scepter of truth, as I fall onto the wooden bench at the huge table.
The main house kitchen looks as if it belongs in a forgotten fairy tale. It’s enormous, rustic, and elegant, all at once, with stone walls, thick ebony beams, and copper pots hanging overhead. Ancient coal stoves blend seamlessly with modern gas burners, like the past and present shook hands and decided to coexist. There’s a giant wood-fire oven glowing in the corner, and the tables are crowded with fresh herbs, jugs of cream, jars of jam, and chaos.
“You’re all feral little monkeys,” Rosa mutters, kneading dough with theatrical aggression.
“I’m not wild,” River defends, her mouth full of buttery bread. “I’m energetic. Totally different.”
R-i-g-h-t. Of course. Totally.
She’s seated beside Mel at the long table, her plate smeared with jam and crumbs, her feet swinging under her chair.
I’m surprised to see Mel looking this steady. Or out of her room. At the funeral, she collapsed. Deimos had to sedate her just to calm the storm inside her. But now — there’s color in her cheeks again. Her eyes are tired but clear.
“You,” Rosa points a floury finger at River, “started a kitchen fire. Again.”
River shrugs. “The bacon started the fire*.* I was just in the room at the same time.”
“Oh,” Lili giggles, clutching her apple slice. “The bacon is for the bunnies!”
“Bacon? For bunnies?” I ask, blinking. Am I the only one thinking that’s dumb?
“Yeah,” River mutters, mouth still full of jammy bread, “because there are no carrots. And no salad. That pantry is giving ghost town vibes.” She looks at Rosa. “I think we need to do a little shopping, don’t you think? I’ll show you all the things a growing kid needs.”
“We’re mostly self-sufficient.” Rosa looks like she’s about to blow a gasket — or a bubble. Possibly both. “But the delivery is late.”
“I hope they deliver chocolate at least,” River scrubs with Lili backing her up with intensive head nodding.
Jackson turned Black Pit into a well-organized farming community. They produce almost everything here … from peaches to carrots … to … bacon. I’m not sure about chocolate.
“There are lots of bunnies in the forest on the mountain,” Lili announces dreamily, off topic.
And now I’m wondering — what else is in that forest? Bares? Snakes? Cougars?
“Aria, are you alright?” River waves a jam-sticky hand in front of my face.
“She’s spiraling again,” Mel says knowingly. “She’s probably imagining wolves. Or bears. Or mountain lions in sunglasses.”
Am I really that predictable?
Forget the cougars and bears. Now I’m thinking about wolves. Possibly werewolves? I swallow. Hard. Maybe my sister should stay in the hospital forever.
“They’re just young, dumb, and maybe slightly undomesticated,” Mel says.
“I’m not dumb,” River mumbles. “Sometimes, my body just moves faster than my brain thinks, and sometimes my brain thinks faster than my body moves.” She bites and swallows before continuing — “It’s a real problem. With a name AND an abbreviation.”
“Tell me about it,” Mel sniggers. “I got the same thing.”
“So has Sky,” River confesses. Then looks around as if she said too much.
“Well, your boyfriend seems to have it too … he nearly shot my Marco with an arrow,” Rosa adds, glaring at Marco with maternal menace. He and Briana are seated at the end, trying to catch up on all the skipped meals.
River makes a face. “Luke’s NOT my boyfriend.”
“Yet,” Mel says, sipping her tea.
River sighs dramatically. “He’s a complete pain in the ass.” She quickly peeks at Haley through her long lashes. “Sorry, but it’s true.”
“Oh, they all are,” Haley replies, a nostalgic smirk on her lips. “But eventually your heart picks one idiot to keep around. One whose dumb jokes make you laugh even when you don’t want to. One who puts ketchup on his toast and makes you question your life choices. One whose stinky socks end up under your pillow, and whose face you end up memorizing, whether you mean to or not. And then, one day, you realize that he’s the only one who can make all your boo-boos better.”
River’s quiet for a moment, picking at a crust with her thumb. Then, softly: “What if my heart picks too early?”
Mel turns to look at her. Not surprised. Not mocking. Just … knowing.
“Well,” she says gently, “Mine did. And look at me now.”
River arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, pregnant. Exhausted. Full of breadcrumbs.”
Mel grins. “Exactly. Glowing. Radiant. Occasionally homicidal. But I’ll still choose him. Every time.”
River scowls. “I don’t want to be pregnant at thirteen, Mel.”
Mel nearly spits out her tea. “Sweetheart, I’m 20. And if you ever so much as hold Luke’s hand before you’re thirty, I’ll bury both of you in the compost heap behind the stables.”
Rosa hums, completely unfazed. “Make sure it’s the wet compost. More worms in that one.”
“Noted,” River mutters. “No holding hands.”
“Does kissing count?” she sniggers, playfully lifting her chin, her eyes dancing with mischief.
This time, Haley spits some coffee on the table.
“Oh,” Mel says with a wink, nudging her elbow, “As long as it’s on the cheek and not French.”
“I can’t speak French,” River snaps, then adds — “Yet. But Jackson is going to teach me. After I learn how to ride my horse, throw an axe, and shoot that bow better than Luke.”
Rosa sighs heavily, mumbles incoherently, and brushes a loose curl behind her ear, the gray streaks in her dark bun catching the morning light like silver wires.
“All I’m saying,” Alice says gently, “is you need to be careful. All of you.”
“RIVER! COME!” Luke’s voice shrieks from outside like a dying banshee.
Someone swears loudly.
River and Lili shoot to their feet and bolt for the door like it’s a race. Alice follows after them with a long-suffering sigh, mumbling something that might have been a prayer.
Marco grabs a final slice of bread, kisses his mother’s cheek, and then he and Briana trot after the others as if this is all perfectly normal.
Maybe it is.
I rub my temple. Soon, my sister’s going to be part of this gang. This feral farm cult.
Can rabbits be rabid?
No. I refuse to be the dehydrated plum Lili teased about earlier. I still have time before she gets discharged and joins the chaos. I just need to adjust. Settle. Mentally prepare myself before then.
“Here,” Mel says, nudging a warm slice of bread toward me. It smells like heaven. “Eat this before your brain short-circuits. Your sister’s gonna be fine. I promise. My brothers were worse than those three.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Rosa chuckles. “A bunch of hooligans and devils.”
“And Kiara and I survived,” Mel adds, casually, then immediately falters. Her face goes still. The name hangs in the air like a crack in glass. She smiles, but it lingers with an ache. We all feel it. The missing person in this kitchen. The gap where a voice should be. A joke. A breath. A heartbeat.
The kitchen falls quiet. A hush drapes over it like a heavy, invisible shawl. Even the bread seems to wilt under the weight of that name.
Mel swallows the last of her crust like it’s ash.
“I think I’m gonna pee,” she says quietly, already rising from the bench. Her eyes are glossy. She’s trying not to cry, and that makes me want to cry.
Poor Mel. There’s nothing I can say to fix it. Nothing anyone can say. Grief is grief. You survive it in layers.
“Oh, my poor **lindo anjinho** *(Portuguese = beautiful little angel)*,” Aunt Rosa murmurs, crossing herself. “All the things these kids have lived through …”
I watch Mel disappear down the hallway, her shoulders rounded like she’s carrying bricks. Haley follows her like a worried mother.
If I’m going to help Enrique move forward, lose his load, I need to understand this place — this past that holds him hostage. He can’t have a future with me unless he faces it all. And I can’t help him face what I don’t know.
We all deserve happy endings. Even the hooligans and devils.
“Eh … Aunt Rosa?” I ask, hesitating. “Can you tell me about Alexander?”
The air changes instantly. The kitchen goes still. Every head turns toward me like I’ve just named him who must not be named. Like I said, *‘Satan’*, in the middle of Mass.
“Ptwa!” Rosa fake-spits at the floor and crosses herself twice.
The girls mutter something sharp and swift in Portuguese. I don’t know what it means, but it doesn’t sound remotely affectionate.
“We need to get ready … since … you know … Jackson’s bringing Sky home,” she says instead, her hands tightening on the apron tied around her waist.
Right. Deflection with a side of sentimentality. And just like that, the conversation about Alexander is murdered, buried under flour with a convenient distraction.
But I file it away, reminding myself to try again.
“I knew that one was too pretty to be a man,” one of the ladies croons, elbow-deep in dough, her gold tooth flashing with a wicked grin.
“Yeah … those eyes,” another joins, stirring a thick black pot of something that smells like comfort and bliss. Five chicken feet stick out, straight into the air, like they’re reaching for one last miracle before the boil finishes them off. “They’ll make any man fall to his knees. Even the devil.”
“There goes my hope of becoming Mrs. Blackburn,” one sighs dramatically, flour-dusted hands pressed to her heart.
“Dream on,” another snorts. “You had no hope, even if you showed up naked with a sign saying *‘eat me’*.”
A round of giggles ripples through the kitchen like wind catching laundry on a line. It’s the kind of laugh women make when there’s wine and secrets involved.
“Pretty, cute, witty, clever, and brave … no one can compete with that,” one rants.
“And those dimples,” a fourth one sighs boisterously while chopping onions, her eyes wide with admiration and the telltale shimmer of tears from the fumes. The women now cackle like a coven of warm-blooded hens at a wedding.
“Maybe she —”
“GIRLS!” Rosa barks, loud enough to make the flour on the counter flinch, a wooden spoon raised like Thor’s hammer.
They freeze mid-movement like they’ve just been caught plotting a mutiny. Rosa gives the onion girl a particularly sharp look, and she immediately resumes chopping like her life depends on it.
For a beat, the kitchen is stiff and silent.
Then the one at the dough snorts a laugh. “Oh, it’s like a fairy tale, isn’t it?”
“Beauty and the Devil,” onion-girl sniggers.
“Oh, girl … what woman wouldn’t want a piece of that devil?” one swoons, waving herself with a dishcloth.
The others crack up, and just like that, the lively rhythm returns. Spoons clatter. Dough slaps. Someone starts humming a love song, slightly off tone, but sentimental.
Rosa turns back to the stove, muttering something under her breath. But there’s a faint smile on her lips.
“I am making some wholesome, thick chicken broth,” she says suddenly, as if we were never interrupted. “It’s good for Sky, and Mel is going to need some substance for that baby.”
“That sounds delicious,” I say, smiling — but instantly regret it. The entire staff turns their heads in my direction and goes quiet. Not a normal quiet. This is targeted silence. The kind that pricks the skin.
All of them are fixed on … something … at the entrance. Not me. And they’re grinning like they know the punchline to a joke I haven’t heard yet.
“Something smells yummy,” a voice says behind me, and I whip around.
There she is.
Sky. Lee. Moore.
Small as ever, wearing a too-big hoodie and gray tracksuit pants. A bandage circles her head, and her arm rests in a black sling.
That crooked smile is all Lee’s. Dimples, golden-amber lion eyes, and a mischief that makes it very clear she was born for trouble.
She still looks like a boy. But now I see Sky clearly. And somehow, that makes it harder.
Axel warned us all that Sky-Lee died on that boat. That’s the official version. The one the police got. The DNA matched. The tattoo matched. (Don’t ask me how.)
Case closed.
Even the hospital staff were told the patient was a nanny. Jackson filed the false name himself — Lianne Weber.
But clearly, everyone here knows the real truth. And I worry — can they be trusted?
Rosa gasps. “Oh, dearie —” She rushes forward and scoops the girl into a careful but fierce hug. “Let me look at you.”
Sky blinks but doesn’t flinch. “I’m still in one piece, Auntie Rosa,” she says gently. “Just a little more asymmetrical —” She’s scanning Rosa’s face with something like tenderness and something like grief.
“And my boobs can finally breathe now.” Her eyes skirt mine too quickly, like a guilty dog who stole a roast chicken. The kitchen laughs. Clearly, she’s forgiven for every sin she ever committed, and she carries their approval unconditionally.
“You managed to hide them pretty well,” Rosa chirps, “I was starting to think Jackson might be gay.”
“You’re not the only one,” Mathias sniggers, collapsing onto the bench at the end of the long kitchen table like a man who’s just fought off death itself. “His ego took a nosedive.”
He snatches a pastry straight off the tray, still steaming, and bites in without hesitation. The burn must be brutal — his face twitches — but he keeps chewing like it’s a matter of pride. The smell of cheese and sausage fills the air, mixing with the heat from the ovens and the chatter of women still gossiping around the counters.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, looking at Sky.
“Oh,” Mathias mumbles through a mouthful, flakes of crust falling on his shirt. “I wish I’d never left the war — much easier than guarding certain people.” He swallows, smirks. “But other than that, I’m good. Maybe a little malnourished —” he waves his hand vaguely, “But good. Thanks for asking.”
Sky rolls her eyes and makes a face, the kind that says she’s heard enough of his nonsense for one lifetime.
“Great, was not really asking you,” I say dryly. “But good. Now you, Sky — how are you feeling?”
It’s the first time I’m speaking to her since I found out the truth. Since realizing Lee isn’t a HE at all. No one’s been allowed in her room. Only Jackson. And once, late at night, River.
The revelation still sits strange inside me — not because I mind, but because I don’t yet know how to rearrange the friendship in my hands.
As if I’m holding the same book, but suddenly it’s written in cursive instead of print.
Sky shrugs with a tired smile. “Like I’ve been hit by a car.”
No one laughs. They’re listening too hard. It’s almost reverent, the way the air holds still for her.
Then she softens. “I’m good,” she says, her gaze dropping to her shoes.
“I still can’t believe you’re a girl,” I murmur, leaning closer to her.
“You and me both.” Her fingers twist the edge of her sleeve like she’s searching for something to hide behind. “Aria, I’m sorry for not telling you.”
There’s a tense beat. Everyone is listening in a bodacious silence.
“It’s alright,” I say. “I’m sure you had your reasons.” Because I’m sure she had.
She exhales with relief. That smile of hers grows more certain.
“The truth is … when I started all this, I was sure it was the right plan,” she says, moving toward the counter where warm loaves rest beneath soft cloths. “Now I’m not so sure about anything.” I’d never have come up with a plan like that — let alone thought it was the right one.
She lifts the linen cloth covering a tray of bread rolls and inhales dramatically. Her whole face melts into pleasure. Then she gives Aunt Rosa the kind of look usually reserved for puppies or kittens.
“Don’t tell me,” Rosa says, a warm smile on her wrinkled face, “you’re starving.”
“Hospitals don’t feed people properly! They give you these teeeeeeeenny tiny portions,” she whines, holding up her fingers like she’s measuring a doll-sized cookie. “They expect you to heal on three molecules of jello and a whisper of chicken. And it tastes like shit.”
“Language, young lady,” Rosa rants, but starts to butter a bun.
“Your food spoiled me. Nothing compares anymore.”
The women laugh, and just like that, the room breathes again.
“Eat, eat,” one of the ladies waves a floury hand. “That’s why we bake. For our girls.”
Rosa hands her the bun, which goes straight to her mouth.
Sky grins around a bite. “For your criminal, half-dead, fake-nanny, dressed-as-a-guy girls?”
“Especially those,” Rosa says proudly, cupping her cheek. “Sit down, **Diabinha** *(Portuguese = nickname meaning little devil girl)*, we’ll feed you proper,” Rosa chimes like a mother hen who found her favorite lost chick.
A chick whose skin is ghostly pale — but flawless — made even more striking by her long, thick, auburn hair now framing her face. There’s a scrape on her cheek and a huge, swollen bruise with stitches above her right eye, just at the hairline. But besides that, she’s painfully beautiful. Even with no make-up.
Sky winces as she tugs at the sling, then carefully works her way out of the hoodie, the fabric dragging over her shoulders before slipping free. For the first time, I actually see her — really see her. As a girl. With boobs.
The air stills. The room goes silent. A spoon clinks against a bowl. Even the sunlight seems to pause.
Because damn — what a girl she is.
As if a near-perfect face isn’t enough, this one comes with perfect curves, too, a body that can make saints doubt their vows. Mother Nature clearly put in overtime when designing her.
No wonder the devil fell.
There’s a kind of unfair perfection to her — beauty that’s not delicate but dangerous, like a flame you can’t look away from even though you know it’ll burn. And for a heartbeat, every sound in the kitchen fades, and we all just stare, caught in the gravity of her.
Sky-Lee sits down slowly, wincing a little at her ribs, and the purple full-arm cast makes her movements awkward. But she’s smiling. And it’s the kind of smile that makes people melt to life — and the soft hum in the kitchen starts up again.
She lifts a second warm roll off the tray and tears it open. Steam rises like magic. She reaches for the butter.
“I still need to thank you for saving my life,” I say.
She grins sideways, licking butter off her thumb. “Instinct … or something,” she says dryly, then adds — “Also … I didn’t want all your faces haunting my dreams.”
“Mel would’ve probably punched me from beyond the grave,” she continues.
“Nice to know she’s vengeful even in the afterlife,” I mutter.
“Oh, definitely. She’s got the ghost grudge vibe.” Sky grins, then dips her bread in the huge cup of coffee Rosa just filled, like she hasn’t just described death and afterlife combat.
Aunt Rosa reaches for a loaf and starts slicing thick pieces, muttering under her breath about how someone so tiny can eat like a lumberjack. My stomach also rumbles in anticipation.
She shakes her head but hands us each a slice of fresh bread with butter melting into the pores, and that sweet home-cooked fig jam seeping down the sides.
“Do you remember what happened?” I ask softly. She chews and swallows.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye, noticing how tired her face really looks. The shadows under her lashes. The careful way she moves.
“Not everything … remember I saw the car coming … didn’t think … just ran. I shoved Mel … and that’s all I remember.” She stops eating mid-bite and glares at the wall. “Jackson said that because you were interlinked, the momentum thankfully yanked you with Mel …”
“I was too slow,” she mutters. “Broke my arm and a few ribs, cracked my head.” She shrugs. “Got the full Jackson treatment, don’t you worry. Suffered through a whole week of brooding, lectures, scowls, and his patented disappointed sighs.”
Mathias chuckles softly from the side, as if he knows way more than we do. And I’m sure he does.
Sky’s lips twitch. “It was way worse than the pain, I can tell you that,” she snorts. “And it comes without morphine.” Everyone giggles lightly, and she gives a small laugh — the tired kind, but real — looking around the kitchen as if acknowledging everyone, bringing them into the conversation.
And I think by myself, it feels like grief that’s starting to heal.