You call this fate?

Chapter 47

I could feel everything changing in my blood.

The day that I knew we were going in the completely wrong direction started off so normal that, when it did happen, I felt every single moment like a punch in the gut.

Brow sweating, I turned a whisk in the questionable contents of the saucepan. The gluttonous liquid inside, my attempts at a soup, bubbled and spluttered, doing an uncanny imitation of some dangerous marsh in the depths of uncharted Amazon.

Growing more worried by the second, I debated for only a moment before upturning two glasses of water over the mess, feeling like a witch over her large, black cauldron. The water formed a separate layer on top, unwilling to mix with the thick cement underneath. Alarmed, I whisked away with full concentrating. Unfortunately, when the contents did mix, the soup watered down so much that now, taking a moment to come to boil again, it splattered at the sides of the pan angrily.

“Damn and blast!” I cursed, throwing the whisk down and turning the heat off.

Dropping down on a stool, I reflected on my situation. Once again, the Gods of Holy Kitchen were showing me that I had nothing up my sleeve to appease them. They were still adamant the only edibles I ever made were going to be out of a box or can.

Granny had tried long and hard for me to get my shit together, spending several concentrated hours over our old gas stove to teach me that it was not okay to put salt by the spoonful, and that leaving something on the fire for too long generally resulted in unappetising, charred layers of burned previously-edible ingredients at the bottom of the pan.

I was hopeless.

Wiping hands on a dishcloth, I pushed clumps of sweaty hair off my forehead, wondering why I even attempted at something so wholly out of my league that even Tasha had the gall to wince at my expense.

“…and you have to promise to listen to me at all times,” Alexander was saying as he limped into the room, balancing on crutches. Just yesterday he had deemed himself well enough to get out of the wheelchair, barely a week after getting into it. The doctors did not share his enthusiasm; apparently, he did not share their pessimism either.

There I sat, watching him hobble forward as he looked over his shoulder to address whoever followed, sinking in deep morose thoughts of my repeated failures, when a thought struck.

Springing off the stool, I took only a second to dip a spoon in the soup. Balancing the dollop of orange liquid to prevent spilling any, I advanced toward him. Alexander, now having noticed my general direction, was watching with a wry look on his face.

“Here,” I said, thrusting the spoon forward. “Try this.”

He looked at the strange offering. “What is that?” Ella and Hannah bounded into the room after him, looking up at us with interest.

“Soup,” I answered. “Go on, try it.” I pushed the spoon forward some more.

He looked at me curiously. “What are you trying to do?”

I gritted my teeth. “Why do you have to act like such a baby? For the sake of heaven, eat it.” The spoon was dangerously close to his lips.

My irritation seemed to amuse him. He turned his head, asking, “Is it poisoned?”

“Don’t be such a douche,” I said. “It’s perfectly alright.”

“Then you eat it.”

I huffed. “I already have,” I said. “I want a second opinion.”

“On taste? Isn’t that the same for everybody?”