Page 34 of In Her Own Rite

I shrug. “With my mom, sometimes.”

I feel his energy shift, growing careful.

“Tell me.” It’s a probe, not a command. I know I can say no—I usually do. But it feels okay today.

“She loved to cook,” I say. “She was really good at it. She used to sing whenever she was happy, and I heard it most often when she was gardening or in the kitchen.”

“What kind of stuff did she make?”

“Traditional Fakari stuff.” I smile, remembering. “Bakkabread,kalgaali et ekka, broths. She used to make this amazing risotto withperre. What’s the English word?” I gesture in the air, looking for it.

“Leek.”

“Right, leek. It was so good. I haven’t had it in forever.”

“We should make it sometime.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I shrug. “It wouldn’t be like how she made it.”

“It could still be nice, though.”

I feel some emotion deep down, and change the subject before it comes too close to the surface.

“What kind of stuff did you eat, growing up?” I ask. “Any famous Halluki recipes I should know about?”

He shakes his head, his red-brown hair brushing against his shoulders with the motion. “Nah. It was mostly my dad who made dinner, and honestly, it was usually pretty bland. But sometimes my mom madeweijnotbrod, the Fakari walnut bread. I guess you ate that too?”

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “My dad was allergic to nuts. The first time I hadweijnotbrodwas when I moved in to ourfika.”

“Well, you missed out. My brothers and I would fight to the death for the last slice.”

“You had a full house, right? Not afika, but…”

“Yeah, just my family. But with three older brothers you have to fight for table scraps.”

I smile. “Something tells me you did just fine.”

“I had to.”

I glance up at him, studying his face. It’s hard to imagine Kieran—all six-foot-five, two-hundred-something pounds of him—ever feeling small. But I guess that’s why he looks out for me. Because he knows what it’s like to feel vulnerable.

“Do you have any nice memories with them?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Sometimes we’d go swimming in the grottos along the northern shore of the island. That was fun.”

“No way,” I say, smiling. “We used to do that, too. My mom would take us to the grottos on the eastern shore that only the locals know. The caves look directly out at the sea. We’d spend an afternoon there and bring picnic food and books.”

He looks at me, his eyes gentle. “She sounds great.”

“She was. She made every day special.”

I feel the sadness welling up in me again, and Kieran must see it, too, because he changes the subject.

“I think these are done,” he says, looking down at the potato massacre on his cutting board.

“That looks perfect.”

He laughs. “You’re such a liar. This looks like shit. Look, the pieces are totally different sizes! Half of them are gonna burn.”

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