chin.
Seemingly mollified, he ambled over to a
bearskin rug by the stone hearth and hunkered down with his
brothers.
“ She’s awake! Finally,” Mortimer
grumbled as he entered the kitchen dressed in a charcoal suit, a
folded newspaper under one arm. If he’d seemed a little annoyed
yesterday, today he was downright irritable.
Maybe he’s not a
morning person.
I dropped my head in shame and was about to
apologize again when Viggo walked in, instantly lifting the dark
cloud that Mortimer had brought. “Happy birthday! What are you
craving this morning, my darling—waffles; pancakes; steak and eggs?
It’s been an eternity since I’ve cooked for someone,” Viggo
offered, snatching up a cast iron pan and flipping it effortlessly
around in the air.
I glanced at Mortimer, wondering if he wasn’t
“someone
.
”
“ Oh, he doesn’t like my cooking.
Says it’s too bland,” Viggo explained, giving Mortimer a secretive
wink. Mortimer rolled his eyes with annoyance.
“ Coffee would be great, but only if
you have a pot made already,” I said.
“ But of course, mademoiselle!
Anything for you. Leonardo?” Viggo snapped his fingers. The gentle
old man suddenly appeared, shuffling over to an elaborate machine
on the counter.
“ And I’ll have whatever you’re
having,” I added. “No needed to go to any extra
trouble.”
“ Oh, we’ve already eaten,” Viggo
said, flashing a pearly white smile. “Speaking of which,” he yanked
the newspaper out of Mortimer’s grasp, “Sofie, did you see that
article on the quadruple homicide in this morning’s newspaper?
Japanese mob. They likely deserved it; however … a little
excessive, wouldn’t you agree?” He smiled knowingly at her.
He
must be a lawyer. Bizarre segue, though. Why would
he—
“ Besides,” Mortimer interjected,
throwing his partner a look of unimpressed shock, “Viggo wouldn’t
be cooking. The pan is for theatrical effect. He’s a complete
buffoon in the kitchen. He almost burnt it down once and has since
been banished.”
“ Sadly, that is true,” Viggo
admitted, pouting.
I giggled, looking around the state–of–the–art
kitchen. Surely it had to be any chef’s dream, with its
industrial–sized stainless steel appliances and stone
countertops.
“ Here you are, dear,” Leonardo said,
gently placing a mug of hot coffee in front of me. “And while
you’re deciding on breakfast—” His other hand magically produced a
double–helping slice of chocolate cake, slathered with chocolate
icing and colorful sprinkles.
Nostalgia slapped me across the face, pulling
me back to my childhood. My mother used to serve me the same
breakfast on my birthdays, sprinkles and all. It had been one of
many traditions that died with her.
Until now.
“ I guessed at the flavor. And the
sprinkles,” Leonardo quickly admitted. “That’s what you kids are
eating these days, right?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“ Lucky guess,” Mortimer said, fixing
Sofie with an unreadable stare.
Sofie sipped her tea, the corners of her mouth
turned up in a devious smile.
“ How are you feeling, Evangeline?
Did you sleep well?” Viggo asked.
I faltered, instinctively touching the sizeable
bump near my temple. “Yes I did. Thanks.”
“ That wasn’t a convincing response.
We can provide you with a different room or bed if you’d like,”
Viggo offered, concerned.
“ Oh no, the room and the bed are
perfect! It’s … well, it’s silly. I had a dream. More a
nightmare.”
Mortimer stiffened in his seat. “What about?”
His gruff voice was suddenly two octaves higher than
usual.
“ It was nothing, really. I was in
the woods and there was a drowning. An attempted
drowning.”
“ Details, please. I’m somewhat of a
dream interpreter,” Viggo said. He leaned against the counter,
resting his strong, square jaw in the palm of his hand. “From the
beginning—don’t leave anything out. You never know what’s
important.”
“ Alright, I
Seemingly mollified, he ambled over to a
bearskin rug by the stone hearth and hunkered down with his
brothers.
“ She’s awake! Finally,” Mortimer
grumbled as he entered the kitchen dressed in a charcoal suit, a
folded newspaper under one arm. If he’d seemed a little annoyed
yesterday, today he was downright irritable.
Maybe he’s not a
morning person.
I dropped my head in shame and was about to
apologize again when Viggo walked in, instantly lifting the dark
cloud that Mortimer had brought. “Happy birthday! What are you
craving this morning, my darling—waffles; pancakes; steak and eggs?
It’s been an eternity since I’ve cooked for someone,” Viggo
offered, snatching up a cast iron pan and flipping it effortlessly
around in the air.
I glanced at Mortimer, wondering if he wasn’t
“someone
.
”
“ Oh, he doesn’t like my cooking.
Says it’s too bland,” Viggo explained, giving Mortimer a secretive
wink. Mortimer rolled his eyes with annoyance.
“ Coffee would be great, but only if
you have a pot made already,” I said.
“ But of course, mademoiselle!
Anything for you. Leonardo?” Viggo snapped his fingers. The gentle
old man suddenly appeared, shuffling over to an elaborate machine
on the counter.
“ And I’ll have whatever you’re
having,” I added. “No needed to go to any extra
trouble.”
“ Oh, we’ve already eaten,” Viggo
said, flashing a pearly white smile. “Speaking of which,” he yanked
the newspaper out of Mortimer’s grasp, “Sofie, did you see that
article on the quadruple homicide in this morning’s newspaper?
Japanese mob. They likely deserved it; however … a little
excessive, wouldn’t you agree?” He smiled knowingly at her.
He
must be a lawyer. Bizarre segue, though. Why would
he—
“ Besides,” Mortimer interjected,
throwing his partner a look of unimpressed shock, “Viggo wouldn’t
be cooking. The pan is for theatrical effect. He’s a complete
buffoon in the kitchen. He almost burnt it down once and has since
been banished.”
“ Sadly, that is true,” Viggo
admitted, pouting.
I giggled, looking around the state–of–the–art
kitchen. Surely it had to be any chef’s dream, with its
industrial–sized stainless steel appliances and stone
countertops.
“ Here you are, dear,” Leonardo said,
gently placing a mug of hot coffee in front of me. “And while
you’re deciding on breakfast—” His other hand magically produced a
double–helping slice of chocolate cake, slathered with chocolate
icing and colorful sprinkles.
Nostalgia slapped me across the face, pulling
me back to my childhood. My mother used to serve me the same
breakfast on my birthdays, sprinkles and all. It had been one of
many traditions that died with her.
Until now.
“ I guessed at the flavor. And the
sprinkles,” Leonardo quickly admitted. “That’s what you kids are
eating these days, right?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“ Lucky guess,” Mortimer said, fixing
Sofie with an unreadable stare.
Sofie sipped her tea, the corners of her mouth
turned up in a devious smile.
“ How are you feeling, Evangeline?
Did you sleep well?” Viggo asked.
I faltered, instinctively touching the sizeable
bump near my temple. “Yes I did. Thanks.”
“ That wasn’t a convincing response.
We can provide you with a different room or bed if you’d like,”
Viggo offered, concerned.
“ Oh no, the room and the bed are
perfect! It’s … well, it’s silly. I had a dream. More a
nightmare.”
Mortimer stiffened in his seat. “What about?”
His gruff voice was suddenly two octaves higher than
usual.
“ It was nothing, really. I was in
the woods and there was a drowning. An attempted
drowning.”
“ Details, please. I’m somewhat of a
dream interpreter,” Viggo said. He leaned against the counter,
resting his strong, square jaw in the palm of his hand. “From the
beginning—don’t leave anything out. You never know what’s
important.”
“ Alright, I
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