A portly woman with gray hair escaping a white mop cap bustled from the fireplace to the ovens and back again, stirring bubbling pots and humming away.
When she saw us, she threw the dish towel in her hand across her shoulder and hurried over.
From the black in her eyes, I assumed she was a witch. Her nose wasn’t hooked, and her features weren’t grotesque, as witches in the storybooks were often portrayed. If it weren’t for her eyes, she would’ve looked like someone’s old granny.
“There’s my boy!” The woman gave Rían a pat on the cheek. When she saw me standing awkwardly in the doorway, her smile grew. “Is this who I think it is?” Her hands clapped under her double chin. “Oh, she is a dote! Come closer, girl, give us a look at ye.”
I stepped forward, not sure what to make of the woman or her warm greeting.
Rían waved toward me like he was shooing away a fly. “This is Aveen. Aveen, this stunning young woman is Eava.”
“Oh, you!” Eava whapped his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Deceitful wretch. Young woman, my arse.”
Eava.
I remembered the name from the night before I’d died. I offered a tentative smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet the woman responsible for the world’s best cherry tarts.”
She took my hands, squeezing them both. “I’m surprised this selfish bastard shared. He must be smitten with ye.”
Smitten? I’d hardly call holding someone against her will “smitten.”
Rían groaned as he passed. “Eava’s mind is going. We only keep her around out of pity.”
“Careful, boy. Or the next time I make ye tarts, they’ll be poisoned.” She dragged out one of the high stools at a butcher block table and patted the top. “Hop up there, and we’ll see what we have fer brekkie.”
Bowls and jars lined the center of the table, none of them labeled.
If I wasn’t so set on hating it here, I could see myself liking Eava.
The witch went to a press in the corner to withdraw three plates. “Where’s yer brother?”
Rían lifted lids off pots and pans, sniffing everything. “Busy drinking himself into a stupor, no doubt.”
“Right so. He’ll be needing soakage when he’s through.” She set the plates in front of me, then went to a different cupboard to drag out a tin of flour, sugar, and two eggs.
Some man my sister had married. A lousy, no-good drunk.
Throwing himself onto another stool, Rían leaned his chin on his hand and twisted to watch me.
If he didn’t stop staring, I was going to shove him off.
A wrinkle formed between his bunched eyebrows. “Besides widows and orphans, what do you like for breakfast?”
Eava chuckled.
“I’ll eat just about anything,” I said. Keelynn had always been the picky one.
“I didn’t ask what you’d eat. I asked what you like.”
What did I like?
I’d never given it much thought. My father usually left the meals to the staff. I knew how to work out a menu with the cook, but it had never been necessary. Cook took care of everything on her own.
“I like . . . um . . . poached eggs and toast.”
Rían nodded, turning to Eava. “Did you hear that, you old bat?”
She launched a wooden spoon at him, narrowly missing his head. “Next time I’ll hit ye square between those pretty blue eyes.”