Libba cleared her throat, giving her head a little shake, and turned back to the pan, dropping the butter in and watching it melt. “Frying is faster,” she said briskly. “But no less delicate. Try to crack the egg only once and then separate it with one handto save the yolk. Hold it low on the pan so it holds its caul, unless you prefer them scrambled.”
She tilted the pan this way and that, spreading the layer of grease evenly until it shimmered. “Do you want to try?”
“Why don’t you do the first one?” he suggested, his brow wrinkled enough that she could not tell if he was being gracious or genuinely nervous.
She snapped the egg against the wooden countertop and demonstrated, then stood back and let him follow.
“This one you have to watch,” she said, pointing at the frying pan. “You can see the whites turn from clear to solid. Some folks like them cooked only in one direction, but I flip mine because I don’t like any slime leftover. I’ll flip them. It’ll take practice until you can do it without breaking the yolk.”
“Water’s aboil,” he pointed out, nodding at the other pot.
“Two eggs for the pot,” she said, withdrawing the cylinder and gesturing at the basket. “Gently, with the spoon. Go on.”
She watched him as she peeled the tissue paper away, his tongue suspended between his teeth, hissing at the feel of steam as he took entirely too long lowering two eggs into the boil. When it was done, he looked up at her wide-eyed and hopeful.
“Yes, good,” she said, swallowing down the urge to titter. “I’ve brought you this hourglass. It is seven minutes exactly. Turn it about somewhere you can see it and when it empties, you take the boiling eggs off the heat.”
She turned it over for him and took up a spatula to flip the eggs, allowing him his moment to process all she’d said. “There is salt and rosemary in the basket for seasoning.”
“And two more eggs,” her father pointed out, sounding a bit stunned.
“Yes, those are for you to try with on your own tomorrow,” she said. “I can bring more in a few days when the hens have laid again.”
“Plates,” he said, turning to grab them. “I… The second one’s dusty. I’ll just wipe it down, shall I?”
She shrugged and let him get on with it, watching the frying pan until she was satisfied. She doused the second range and turned to find two chipped plates awaiting adornment.
“Still a few minutes on the boil, and those will need to cool before we peel them,” she said, “unless you’ve got egg cups. I can get you egg cups.”
“The hell’s an… I mean… erm,” Ulysses said, reddening. “What’s that?”
“A silly thing for rich people,” Libba answered, reaching into the basket for the herbs and salt. “But nice to have, I suppose, especially for someone who eats the things as often as you do.”
“They’re cheap and cook easy,” he said with a self-conscious shrug.
“Not as easy as you’ve been doing it,” she retorted with a little quirk of her lips. “I suppose you’ve never been taught to cook. It is just a skill, like your woodworking or accounting.”
“Your mam thought it was art,” he replied, scratching behind his ear. “She was an artist, you know. Paints and such.”
Libba set the plates down and turned toward him, weighing her words. “I didn’t know,” she said softly. “I don’t know much about her at all, actually. I didn’t even know I looked like her until you said so, some weeks ago.”
He frowned. “She’d be cross with me about that, I suppose. About a lot of things.”
They stared at one another for a moment.
“Well,” said Libba, tilting her head to the side, “I suppose you’ve still got time to do what she’d wish, so long as you’re still here on Earth and I’m standing near enough to listen.”
“Is that why you came tonight?” he asked, lifting a liver-spotted hand for half a second before seeming to think better of it and letting it drop to his side. “To ask about Elizabeth?”
“No,” she said. “I came to ensure you have not told anyone about that friend I asked you to aid and to request you not do so moving forward. And to teach you how to make eggs that aren’t horrible.”
“Your friend?” said her father. “The employee, you mean? The one who wants my name?”
“He doesn’t anymore,” she said, raising her brows. “Because it turned out that he couldn’t take it, anyhow. But in order to take the new one he’s found, we require your discretion. Which means you cannot tell anyone about it, even if you’re with the lads on the shipyard. Even if you’re drunk.”
“I only get drunk alone,” he pointed out. “And even then, the only person I babble to is your mam.”
“If you want to be around long enough to do what she’d want you to do,” Libba told him with a lift of her chin, “perhaps you should stop getting drunk at all.”
