Bridget coughs hard, seeming ready to retch into the sink.
I examine the leaves, but there’s no sign of moisture or mold. I take a careful sniff. Sweet, tart, like pomegranates. Nothing offensive. But the smell also brings a memory. This kitchen, night, storm, violence. Holding my sister’s knife lodged into Chamomile’s throat. Her body collapsing.
It’s my handwriting on the tin. Hidden in a cabinet I never touched. How? Did I write it in a fugue state? Throw it onto the shelf?
“We’ll use the black tea.” I close the tin tight and stuff it to the back of the cabinet.
I prepare the hair rinse while Bridget fills the tub with hot water. A natural silence falls between us, interrupted only by laughter anytime our eyes meet. Inside, it’s easy to let go of the trauma of last night. I put the rinse and scrub bowls beside the tub, then collect a few linens and the lighthouse keeper’s old bathrobe. I planned to go upstairs to the storeroom to wait among the few sundries left until Bridget is finished. Instead, when I rise from setting everything within the tub’s reach, I spot her already removing the outer layers of her dress.
“Oh, I was going to go—”
“It doesn’t bother me,” she says. She turns to look over her shoulder, and my lips are suddenly dry, my throat constricted. “Though, ifyouare bothered—”
“I’m not bothered!” I say too loudly.
She grins, toothy at the mouth and sparkling at the eyes. I’m a stuttering fool in comparison.
“I could use your help with my hair.” She removes her wool dress, revealing her matching dark petticoat, corset, and white shift underneath. “And reaching my back.”
I equally want to look at her and anywhere but her. We’ve kissed. I’mnot a stranger to her, yet I am tothis. The lines of her shoulders bulge slightly as she unties her petticoat.
“These need cleaning,” she says, placing each item neatly in a pile.
“I’ll do that after the bath. You know, you nearly drowned twice in the same dress,” I realize as I say it.
“Impressive, if I say so myself,” she says.
Our gazes meet in a charged silence, only for us both to laugh. How else can we be here, her half-dressed and me tongue-tied so soon after such a horrid scene? I move my stare to the ceiling as she unties her corset.
“You’re blushing!” she accuses, worsening the problem. “You’ve never seen—”
“I’ve seen!” I counter, crossing my arms over my hummingbird heart. In diagrams, in theory. “I’ve seen plenty.”
“I’d like you to see me.” Her voice is softer than silks. She undoes the front lacing of her corset, undoing me along with it. Keeping her shift on, she slides into the bath. It does little to hide her shape, but a barrier between us helps my poor heart. She settles in with a sigh that echoes in my own chest.
The water is clouded with the herbal mixture. Her knees pop above the surface, reddened from the heat. Her arms drape over either side, pleasantly pink against the steel of the basin and swirling pastel purple of the water.
“Dunk your head,” I instruct, serious from nerves.
She theatrically plugs her nose and sinks beneath the surface. Her features move in the shifting water, but her sky-blue eyes remain open. Her bare legs bob up, thighs glistening. I keep my eyes on her face. While she’s fiercely confident, I’m shy as a schoolgirl.
She doesn’t pop back up. I wait a few seconds, then another few. Too long. Does she realize I saw her struggling in the surf last night? I scrunch my sleeves up above my elbows and dip my arms into the water.I slip my hands around her shoulders, careful to lift her without craning her neck back. When her face breaks through the surface, she’s already smiling.
“Don’t you do that!” I chastise. I pull my arms back, but she reaches up and grasps my elbows. It doesn’t hurt. No squeezing pressure, no heat other than the steam of the bath.
I’m leaned too far over the tub. Bridget’s dark brows turn up, mischievous, and her arms pull me closer.
“Bridget. Now wait a—”
I crash into the tub, intoher. Hot water sprays out in a tidal wave around us, splattering on the floor. I straddle her middle in my sopping wet wool dress. Her hands still hold my arms. Her grin is large enough to hold the sea.
“Youare cleaning this up!” I shriek, stifling a laugh.
“Then let’s make sure it’s a proper mess.” She leans up to capture my lips with hers.
Everything is lavender. She’s never been so warm. We’ve never had so little between us. I’ve never been so charmed.
It’s midday by the time we finish her bath. I’ve scrubbed, rinsed, massaged, and kissed her from head to toe, and she emerges from the bath anew. She ties the robe closed, the bottom dragging on the floor.
