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“Of course,” said Anika. “Anything.”
“Please watch over her until I get back. Charlotte doesn’t have anybody to support her in a time like this.”
“Of course. You can count on me.”
“Thank you, my dear sister.”
Chapter Eight
Charlotte woke up to the smell of coffee. Breakfast. A big breakfast. Bacon. Fluffy pancakes on the griddle. She found herself lying on the floor clad in a baby-doll dress made from linen like the one she used to wear in her childhood.
It took her a moment to recognize that this was the dress she used to have when she was a kid. Her mother, on a good day, had sewn a simple dress with the leftover fabric they’d found in Grandmaman’s attic.
She hoisted herself into a sitting position.
Where am I?
She looked around.
Am I dead?
She had no clue of her whereabouts. She wasn’t in any kind of room that made sense. The walls were white. The ceiling was white. The floor was white. It felt like she was sitting in the middle of nothingness save for a closed door a few feet away.
Charlotte bounced up onto her heels and her enthusiasm was rewarded with a slight feeling of vertigo. The world spun and twirled like the inside of a snow globe. She clutched her head and stayed still until she found her equilibrium.
Her eyes darted toward the door, which now stood slightly ajar, where the delightful aroma wafted and enticed her to get up. She followed the temptation without hesitation. Her stomach rumbled, and suddenly she felt very, very hungry. Famished almost.
She pushed the door open. The scenery changed.
She found herself in the old house. Grandmaman’s old farmhouse in Wisconsin, where she and her mother had lived for the first few years of her life. She’d forgotten about it, but now it all came back vividly. The peeling wallpaper. The scent of the recently waxed wooden floor. The rickety noises when she walked in certain parts of the house.
It felt like… home.
And it was good.
Charlotte hadn’t felt such peace in a long time.
She followed her nose and arrived at the kitchen.
A tall man with long black hair, dressed in a simple white shirt and brown khaki pants, was bustling around in front of the stove. With a spatula in his hand, he deftly juggled between flipping pancakes and juicing freshly cut oranges.
She’d never met him, and yet he seemed so familiar.
The slender man looked ageless. He had a beautiful face, too pretty for a man, and he looked inhuman. His dark brows were lush, his eyes inky black. A smile curved at the corners of his lips, and peace radiated from his being. At the moment, he emanated an aura of pleasantness, like a perfect summer day on the lake, but it wasn’t everlasting. At any moment, it could change, and a terrible storm could rage and wipe away everything in its path.
The man sensed her presence. “Hello, sleepyhead. I see you finally woke up. Get a seat and have your breakfast before it gets cold.”
The pancakes looked yummy. The milk in the tall glass practically begged to be drunk. She felt a compulsion to run to that man and hold him tight.
Charlotte fisted the fabric of her dress. “Who are you?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
The man paused. He beamed at her.
“I’m your father. Don’t be silly.”
Ah. This explained everything. Well, kind of.
Charlotte obediently trudged to the table and took a seat. She’d just noticed that her hair was in twin pigtails. Red checkered ribbons adorned each one. One of the ribbons was undone, and the man who claimed to be her father fixed it with fatherly affection.
