The Kitchen, Ibutatu Estate, Isla Dzum
On the top of it, she had sat, arms about her legs, and tucked her chin against her knees. She had watched the sun rise through glittering tears, distant; there had been no space in her for thought. By the time she felt the warmth of the sunrise on her face she was weeping; not hard and fast, not aching, but soft and easy. Kind, Niccolette thought, if tears could be kind. Pink-gold light streamed through the blue haze in the air around her, lighting it up, and Niccolette watched through shuddering breaths. She did not try to meditate; this was not a feeling she wished to take to the mona, to burn out through careful, deliberate focus. She held, instead, a small windswept figure on a platform above the cliffs, until the sun had risen up over the horizon, and the light washing her was pale and yellow, and the heat of the day beginning to build.
When she was ready, Niccolette climbed back down with cold, half-numb hands and went inside. There was a little soft motion from the kitchen, though nothing from upstairs. Niccolette did not go to greet Ahura, but went instead back to her bedroom. She stripped off her husband’s robe and hung it from the door, and left her slip puddled on the ground. She bathed, then, in fiercely hot water, scrubbing the salt air from her hair and skin. She brushed it smooth, watching the motions in the mirror, careful and deliberate.
Niccolette brushed powder lightly over her face, smoothing out the redness about her eyes with a cream; she painted eyeliner on, slow and careful, and added a pale pink color to her lips. She wore one of the loose flowery dresses of the islands, though she chose one with a sash she could pull tight at her waist. The hem just barely brushed the floor, and Niccolette tucked her feet into slippers beneath it. She turned, and faced herself in the mirror beside the door. There was nothing on her face; she found a faint little smile from somewhere inside herself, and offered it up.
Niccolette checked the library first, but she was not too surprised that it was empty. She went to the kitchen, then, drawn by the smell of kofi wavering in the air and the light, cheerful chatter of Ahura’s voice; closer, she could hear the quiet, questioning murmur of a deeper one beneath it. The kitchen was warm, inside; it smelled like coconut and mint and tomato and onion.
Ahura looked up from the stove with a smile. “Good morning, madam,” she said in lilting Estuan. She transferred a hopper out of the pan onto a plate, and covered the stack of them with a soft cloth.
Niccolette smiled at her, and nodded as well to Vauquelin. He was frowning down at one of Ahura’s mortars; there was a pestle in one shaky hand, hovering over mashed fresh coconut.
“Ahura,” Niccolette said, moving into the kitchen. She drew her hair back off her face, winding it in a heavy knot at the back of her head. A few strands draped free in the warm, heavy air; Niccolette did not mind them. She let the loose knot hang down her back. “Would you see to the packing?” Niccolette asked in quiet Mugrobi.
Ahura gave her a look that said she was not in the least fooled. Niccolette found her smile had grown faintly sheepish. The Mugrobi woman cupped her cheek, gently, and gave it a soft little pinch, and then she left the kitchen.
Niccolette glanced at Vauquelin. She went to the stovetop; the irukew pan was heating on the flame, oil gleaming on the surface of it. Niccolette checked the fermented batter, bubbles rising in it; she dipped a spoon into it, and swirled, carefully, deliberately, although she did not really doubt that Ahura had found the correct consistency.
The ladle Ahura had out Niccolette did not like; it gave too much batter, full, and Niccolette had not marked it. She opened the drawers instead, and found the one she preferred, with the little line that Uzoji had nicked in for her with his knife. One of two, Niccolette thought – the other one had been – was – she wondered if it had come apart in the blast, or if it had melted in the heat. She felt a lump rising in her throat, and there was a heat behind her eyes that promised tears. Niccolette took a deep breath, and it caught in her chest – hitched –
The oil bubbled in the pan, and Niccolette sniffled, audibly, and turned back to it. She blinked the tears away, and frowned; she set the ladle down, and lifted the pot, holding it off the heat for a few moments. Then she set it back down, dipped the ladle into the batter, filling it just to the nick, and poured it into the pan. Niccolette lifted the pan again, and swirled it with an even, precise motion of her wrist. Once, twice, and a third time, and she set the pan back down. She took an egg from the basket at the side of the stove, and cracked it precisely into the center of the irukew, and covered the pan.
Niccolette could count the seconds in her mind while speaking, and she did. She turned to Vauquelin, looking at his back. “I owe you an apology,” Niccolette said. She moved past him, and fetched down the small green leaves for the chutney from the ceiling, setting one, two, three, four, five on the counter; she found the peppercorns as well, and poured them one by one into the palm of her hand. She set them down as well in the small bowl Ahura had set out for them, amidst the rest of what the chutney required, and leaned against the counter next to Vauquelin, looking directly at him, her small chin raised.
“I cannot give you one,” Niccolette continued, calmly. She took a deep breath, and shook her head, faintly. “I would not offer you empty words. To give you an apology – it would be as if to say that I would not do it again.” She was quiet, looking at him. “But I would make the same choice, even with all that we know now, and I will not pretend otherwise.” Niccolette met his gaze, and held there. She waited, giving him time to answer, the count for the irukew still ticking away steadily in her head.