and a papery gold onion glints on the windowsill, atop a copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. It is mid-afternoon, but here the sun filters through windows surrounded by ivy, giving the room a cool aquatic quality despite the heat and welcoming aromas.
Mabel emerges, blinking, into the kitchen and drops Honora’s hand to begin a separate exploration of floured countertops and painted, freestanding tables. The two girls exchange a glance. Is it here? Or here?
Grandmother Castle’s cottony head lifts as they enter, and her smile contains just enough hint of impatience that they keep their distance—until she beckons both girls over to where she has sugar cookies cooling on a rack. As hot as it is, three loaves of fresh-baked bread also rest on the counter, and alongside them, a pan of cinnamon rolls.
She has shaped the largest cookies into numbers. Last year she baked threes, sixes, and eights; today she passes a seven to Mabel. “Careful of that pan now. It’s still warm.” She slides the hot tray farther back on the countertop and selects the number nine from the rack for Honora. She calls her by her pet name. “Your last single digit, Honey. And when William wakes, I have a four for him.” She scoots both children aside. “Now, out from under me so I don’t step all over you.”
She no longer cuts and bakes the ages of Mabel’s four elder brothers into cookies. They are past all that, but hidden amongst more mundane shapes on a plate of circles, diamonds, or crosses, they’ll still discover a boot, a hat, a moustache—any of the rich possibilities their grandmother sees as she slices through the dough.
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