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5. Control
IT WAS HARD to guess if Roy was mortified or happy about staying in our cottage.
With his mask of coldness in place, he appeared polite and detached as he helped me set the table for dinner. It was amazing how he could be fierce and passionate one moment, and give me frostbite with his gaze the next. Or simply not show any emotions, like now. But even his gloomy presence couldn’t chill the warm atmosphere in the dining room as we were having supper, and I refused to let my desire for him overrule every other emotion. The Christmas lights and candles shed a soft glow in the room. Flames crackled in the fireplace while the wind howled against the windows. The chicken soup was spicy and smooth, melting in my mouth, and the cold outside made it even more delicious. Heaven.
“So, Mr Turner, you’ve never met your parents?” Aunt Mabel asked, passing a bowl of mashed potatoes around. Her eyes still misted when she looked at him, as if he were a lost puppy.
I glanced at her, begging her to drop the subject. It wasn’t only the fact that Roy couldn’t tell her about the beasts, but he didn’t like being questioned. I knew something about that.
Roy dabbed his mouth with the napkin. “No. I’m an orphan.”
“I see.” She eyed him from across the table. Once again, I could almost hear her thoughts. Roy and I had the same amber eyes. We both were orphans, and we both were working for the government. The government had dropped me at my aunt’s threshold. Even for a down-to-earth woman like my aunt, a conspiracy theory about mysterious children raised for a secret project of the government wouldn’t sound so far-fetched.
“Did they treat you well in the children’s home where you grew up?” she pressed on. The ‘poor Oliver Twist’ tone was gone from her interrogation, replaced by a ‘there’s something fishy here’ attitude.
“I was happy with my…with the other children.” He took a spoonful of cabbage and potatoes, avoiding looking at me.
Had he been about to say ‘my brother’? That would have raised a new string of questions from Aunt Mabel. And from me. I was dying to know more about Lukas, but like Clare, that was an off-limits topic to him.
“Do you know how your parents died?” Aunt Mabel seemed like a bloodhound on a trail. “It’s sad that you weren’t adopted. After the war, many orphans found new homes rather quickly. I can’t remember having heard of children who didn’t find parents. People were desperate to rebuild their families and to help war orphans.”
“Aunt,” I said, swallowing some soup.
Her cheeks flushed, and she blinked. “I apologise, Mr Turner. Have I said something wrong?”
Roy wiped his mouth with the napkin. “Not at all, but I’m afraid I can’t answer your questions. I don’t know what happened to my parents. No one has ever informed me of their fate. The children’s home and its occupants have been my home and family. One can’t miss something they have never had.”
His words caused an awkward silence to drop in the room. Poor Aunt Mabel paled, her gaze locked on her plate of vegetables. The scraping of our spoons and forks against the plates was the only sound.
“Any news from Doris and Gladys?” I asked to break the silence.
Aunt Mabel smiled, perhaps glad about the change of the subject. “They’ll pop in later, after they have dinner with their families.”
They’d tease me and ask me questions about Roy’s presence here. I’d never hear the end of it. The wind howled harder, disturbing the flames in the fireplace. I reclined on my chair, my belly full and my beast purring happily. Parsley must have heard her because he stuck his head inside before retreating to the safety of Aunt Mabel’s bedroom.
After finishing his dinner, Roy stood up. “I’ll wash the dishes.”
“Nonsense, you’re a guest.” Aunt Mabel waved him down, but he didn’t sit.
“I insist. It’s the least I can do. You said that Christmas is all about sharing.”
She laughed. “I did. Thank you, Mr Turner.”
He bowed his head, letting his dark tendrils fall over his chin.
While Aunt Mabel cleared the table and fussed around Parsley, I helped Roy in the kitchen. With his hands dipped into the suds, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing his muscular arms as he washed the dishes with vigorous strokes.
“Did you want to stay here?” I whispered, drying a dish with a kitchen towel. “Was my aunt too insistent?”
He flashed his crooked smile, the one that never failed to spike my pulse. “I may have a thing or two to learn from your aunt’s persuasive technique.”
“So, you didn’t want to stay.”
The smile disappeared. “I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do.”
“What do you—”
“Kristin?” Aunt Mabel called from the dining room, her coat in her hand. “I’m popping in next door to Mrs Babcock’s to take her some biscuits. I won’t be long.” She held a box with a red ribbon.
