Page 84 of Hush, Little Baby

“I can go if you’re busy.” The words come out before I can stop them.

Marta snorts. “That’s not what I asked, dear.”

My face heats.

Elise shoots Marta a look, then turns to me. “What she means is that you’re welcome to stay. We’re not busy at all.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, then hesitantly edge farther into the kitchen, my interest, or maybe even my craving for social interaction, outweighing my nerves.

“What are you making?” I ask.

“Blueberry muffins,” Elise says, smiling kindly at me as I inch towards her. “Would you like to help?”

“Oh, um, if there’s anything I can’t mess up…” My cheeks flush. I’m so caught up in the thought of fucking up muffins that I nearly miss that Marta is grinning at me, a faint, sneaky smile tucked in the creases of her face as she slides a hot tray onto the cooling rack.

“You can pour the blueberries into the batter,” she says, already holding out the container with the fruit. “I trust you to use both hands and not make a mess of my floors.”

Elise laughs. “Marta’s just sore that I accidentally spilled half a cup of sugar earlier.”

Marta grumbles, “Some of us have standards.”

I move close to Elise and take the container of berries, feeling oddly important. Her hip bumps into mine softly when she slides aside.

“Just dump the whole thing in?” I ask, and she nods.

So I do. The berries plunk into the bowl, splashing a few dots of pale batter onto my palm, and I instinctively lick them off. It’s not until both women go quiet and turn to stare at me that I realize maybe that was weird.

“I’m sorry, was I not supposed to—?” I start.

“No, it’s just…” Elise’s eyes dart to the little smear on my cheek. “You’re cute. I mean, it’s fine. Here, let’s fold them in.”

She hands me a wooden spoon, which is comically oversized in my grip. Elise hovers, guiding my hand as I slowly lift and turn the batter. Her voice is close and gentle. “You have to do it softly, so the berries don’t get smashed.”

I nod, focusing on the slow lifting and turning motion. The thick, sticky mixture resists me, but each sweep of the spoon quickly becomes a small point of pride. Little blue streaks of berry juice marble the pale batter, and I want to keep folding, to find the exact moment when it’s “just right,” but I’m suddenly aware again of Elise’s hands—how steady and soft they feel as she guides my movements, her pinky brushing my wrist every time the spoon circles around.

The kitchen is warmer than I expected. I feel heat creeping up my neck, rising to my cheeks in a way that isn’t entirely from embarrassment. Maybe it’s the swirl of sweetness and the glow of the oven, or maybe it’s the easy, practiced way these two move around each other, trading trays and towels and glances. I realize I’m not just allowed here, but wanted. The thought settles somewhere in my chest—soft and unfamiliar.

Marta slides the next muffin tray in and turns back, watching me like a hawk. “You’re doing fine,” she announces, and I feel a rush of relief at the words, like I’ve passed a test without even knowing I’d started one.

“More than fine,” Elise beams, and I can’t help but smile back, even if it’s only a twitch.

By the time the last muffins go into the oven, my legs are starting to feel too heavy. Marta notices before I even say anything, and gestures over to the other side of the kitchen island at the tall white stools. When I sit, Elise slides a glass of water over to me, and I take a sip gratefully.

For a while, I simply watch them work, but eventually, the conversation drifts toward Nikolaus.

Well, because I ask, “So, um, what does Nikolaus do all day?”

Marta scoffs. “Work.”

“Constantly,” Elise agrees.

“Does he ever stop?”

The two women exchange a look, then they both laugh, answering my question.

“No,” says Marta. “He doesn’t.”

Elise adds quickly, “It’s been different, though, since you’ve been here. He used to eat alone in his office for every meal, and now he’s at the table with you like clockwork. We’ve seen him much more often these past few days, actually. He’s always going upstairs to check on you or bring you things.”