Page 80 of A Killing Cold

“Let’s go,” I say. I take his hand, and we leave together.

It’s quiet in the lodge when we arrive; we’re up early, though already the scent of coffee and something spiced with nutmeg reaches my nose, and I imagine Irina has been up earlier still.

Irina appears almost as quickly as that thought, and waves us in. “I’m sorry, I am a bit behind,” she says as she shows us into the dining room, already set up with coffee on the sideboard and an array of tiny breakfast pastries. Her definition ofbehindisn’t the same as mine. “Olena is supposed to be helping, but she is—” She pauses, a frown creasing her face.

“It’s no problem,” Connor assures her.

“I believe your grandmother will be here shortly,” she says, and exits, muttering something about “that boy” under her breath. Three guesses as to who Olena is dawdling with.

I’m pouring my coffee—or, as Connor teases, my cream and sugar with a splash of coffee—when Louise arrives as promised, steps clicking on the hardwood. In the doorway she pauses, eyes on me, displeasure evident.

“Connor. Miss Scott,” she says.

My cup scrapes against its saucer. I walk to the table, setting it down at my place and offering her a gracious “good morning.” Play the part. Don’t let the cup rattle, even if your hands are shaking.

“I was under the impression that you would be departing,” she says thinly.

“Oh, I don’t think anyone’s leaving with all this snow,” I say lightly, not quite answering the question. “Can I get you some coffee, Louise?”

“Black,” she says, and takes her seat beside the head of the table, a good distance from me.

“I’ve got it,” Connor says, perhaps sensing that I might decide to pour it over her lap.

He’s setting it down beside her hand as the dining room door opens again, and Trevor comes slouching in. He’s a mess—collar undone and hair disheveled, eyes gluey from lack of sleep or drink or both. He yawnsopenly as he meanders over to the sideboard, plucking up a wheel of puff pastry filled with some kind of cinnamon-nut mix and popping it into his mouth right there, dusting the crumbs off his fingers and onto the floor.

“Quite the storm last night,” he says as he drops into the chair immediately next to me.

“It felt like an Arctic trek just to get here from the cabin.” My voice is bright. My fingers dig into my thigh. Every nerve in me is telling me to run, but there’s nowhere to go.

Voices in the hall. “… at some point they start sleeping in past dawn, right?” Alexis is saying, and then she and Paloma bustle in, Sebastian in Paloma’s arms. He’s carrying a pair of dinosaur toys and is smashing them together, growling like a feral beast. Paloma plops him unceremoniously in a chair and heads for the coffee, leaving Alexis unwinding a scarf from around her neck as she hovers awkwardly near the door.

“Hope everyone got a decent night’s sleep, because we sure didn’t,” she says with forceful cheer.

“Anything wrong?” Connor asks.

“Oh, just something woke up Bastian in the middle of the night and he wouldn’t go back down. Kept getting freaked out by every little noise.” Alexis tracks Paloma as she speaks. Paloma loads up a plate with treats and sets it beside Sebastian, taking her seat without ever making eye contact. “Which you would think would mean he’d sleep in, but…”

Rose arrives then, and Magnus. Rose is put together as always—with that way of moving and speaking like she’s considering every twitch of her facial expression around her in-laws. As we all take our seats, Louise watches me, not bothering to hide her unhappiness at my presence.

Irina comes in, carrying a tray with a steaming scramble of egg and mushroom. She sets it down in the middle of the table and wipes herhands on her apron, obviously frazzled. “A moment, please, I’ll be right back with the rest,” she says.

“Where’s that daughter of yours? Not helping you?” Magnus asks.

Irina’s eyes cut to Trevor. “She’s running a bit late. Haven’t seen her yet today.”

“We need to discuss you distracting the help,” Magnus says.

Trevor’s expression is blank. “She’s probably just sleeping in,” he says, and then Irina is out the door and the food takes the focus.

I reach for the serving spoon. I can feel Louise’s eyes on me as I finish loading up my plate and go to take a bite. Finally she sets her silverware on her plate with a sharp sound and says, “I’m sorry. I cannot do this.”

I freeze, fork in midair, laden with eggs.

“Do what?” Alexis asks.

“I will not sit here and share a meal with this woman as if we don’t know what’s going on,” Louise replies, all genteel offense.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say through my teeth.

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