Page 131 of Stars in Umbra
She stood for ages, working through her fears and doubts until Hanna’s voice called out.
Her mother needed help in the kitchen.
Rina moved in a haze, leaving the scene of her agonizing discovery.
She soon found herself stirring the eggs in a cast-iron skillet while Hanna chopped herbs with practiced speed.
The rhythmicthock-thock-thockof the knife’s blade helped steady Rina’s frayed nerves.
It was familiar and comforting, as was the scent of rosemary, sourdough, and wood smoke from the stove.
Light streamed in through the lace-curtained window, falling over the weathered stone benchtops and dancing across the copper pans that lined the wall.
Mother and daughter worked in easy silence.
Rina had always loved these quiet hours with Hanna.
Rina’s mother’s outlook on life was simple; no ranks or protocols, just hands moving in sync and a bond formed over shared meals.
Several times, Rina’s confession almost rose to her lips:I think I’m pregnant.
However, each time she swallowed it back down.
She craved her mother’s calm wisdom, her soft strength.
Yet saying the statement aloud would mean dragging Mo into the conversation before she’d even come to terms with it herself.
As if summoned by the thought, he appeared.
Mo stepped into the kitchen barefoot, his frame filling the doorway.
A worn tee clung to the sculpted planes of his chest, and gray sweatpants rode his hips.
His mussed, dark shoulder-length hair fell over his forehead, and his eyes, those storm-flecked, maddening eyes, locked onto hers.
Rina’s breath caught.
He crossed the room without a word and dipped his head to press a kiss to her mouth.
His embrace was unhurried, unapologetic, and full of sentiment that made her knees falter.
His palm slid across the small of her back, anchoring her to him as if to sayI’m here. I’m real. You’re mine.
Hanna let out a delighted laugh behind them, dabbing flour from her hands with a cloth. ‘Well, good morning, Mo. That’s a warm Dunian welcome if I’ve ever seen one.’
Rina flushed and pulled back, smoothing her shirt.
Mo grinned, unrepentant, before brushing a kiss to Hanna’s cheek. ‘Good morning,tanti. Whatever you’re making looks delicious, you’re spoiling us.’
Hanna giggled, and Rina sighed.
It was clear her mother was a goner when it came to Mo as well.
They sat at the farmhouse table a few minutes later, breakfast spread between them: crispy fried eggs, slow-roasted tomatoes with garlic, a skillet of mushrooms and thyme, toasted sourdough with lashings of churned butter, and slices of sweet oranges newly picked from the tree.
Hanna poured a glass of fresh juice and then, her voice a melody, shared more stories of Rina’s childhood. ‘I remember when she was six how she marched down the hill to confront the neighbor’s goat for trespassing.’
Rina groaned, a soft protest against her mother’s storytelling.
