Page 79 of Gates of Tartarus

I feel my cheeks start to pink. Did…? I mean… Did S–

Emlyn clears his throat. “Well, shall we try to see what they’re up to?”

My head snaps over to meet a pair of smoky-grey eyes. “Yes. Uh, yes. Absolutely!” I take a moment to compose myself, then send my senses out searching. It’s a waste of time. Tennireef is in another meeting, and Magda’s on the beach. I even try to see Robert Deveraux, but I’m guessing he’s taking a post-prandial nap; I sense he’s there, but the fog won’t part.

My training session afterwards doesn’t go much better. I am hyper-aware of Seef: the heat of his hand against my arm when he corrects my posture, the coiled strength of him, the smooth whisky of his voice. I make mistake after mistake, but Seef, surprisingly, doesn’t needle me, just patiently corrects them. If I weren’t so skittish, I might actually be enjoying myself. As it is, I almost lose my nerve to invite him to dinner tomorrow. I blush and stammer something about the holidays, and no big deal but, if he’s not busy… Seef seems pleased and says he’ll bring a couple bottles of wine.

I spend the entire Tube ride home trying to figure out how a fivesome would work.

???

The guys seem dubious when I tell them about my plans for a Thanksgiving feast. I was right: they haven’t forgotten the mushy potatoes. They rally gamely, though, and Jorge volunteers to help with the shopping and carry the bags. I woke up feeling super excited and even sent Sofía a text, inviting her and Eduardo, but they’ve got plans. I console myself that a dinneren famille, as it were, will be just as nice. I’ve drawn up a list – roast turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans with almonds, creamed onions, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie for dessert. Good thing we’re all early risers as there is a lot to do.

Jorge looks mildly alarmed. “Querida? It is sweet of you, but there’s no need to go to all this trouble. We’d be happy with hamburgers.”

“Jorge! Hamburgers aren’t special. None of you have ever had a proper American Thanksgiving, and I’m going to make sure you have one. It’s tradition.” Honestly! One slightly tipsy dinner, and they lose all faith.

“Gracias, querida.” He smiles, but I notice his eyes look faintly troubled. Men!

Shopping takes longer than expected. You’d think you could find absolutely anything at any time in London, but frozen pearl onions, canned cranberries, and pumpkin-pie filling are not to be had, and we have to go to several shops to get the rest of the ingredients. I decide I’ll do sliced onions in a white sauce instead and have bought fresh cranberries and a whole pumpkin from the grocer’s. How hard can it be?

First things first, I get the turkey on. It takes a while to work out the cooking time, math not being my forte and kilograms and centigrade being absolutely alien, but I’m pretty sure my conversions are right. All of the guys offer to help, but I shoo them away. I’ve got this.

Next comes the stuffing. To my surprise, shops don’t sell stuffing mix, so I’m going to make it from scratch. I’ve bought some breadcrumbs, and I hum as I chop up an onion and toss some herbs into the bowl. The mixture looks a little dry when I’m done, but I’ve followed the recipe and can’t very well add half an egg. I’m sure it will be fine.

On to the pumpkin pie, tra la! I feel like a pioneer woman, dressed all in gingham, delivering a wholesome, home-cooked meal for the men coming in from the metaphorical fields. The pumpkin’s a good size and, oof, a bit heavy, so I grab the biggest knife I can find before plunging it in.

Oh. Dear. God. Who knew that peeling a pumpkin would be so hard? I mean, who theheckknew? The knife keeps getting stuck and then slipping, and I need to take a rest partway through, with a quick cup of tea to bolster my flagging spirits. It’s taking ages, and I guess I get a bit careless because I don’t get my fingers out of the way the next time the knife skews off.

“Eeeeeeeeeh!” I whistle like a steam train.My finger! I’ve cut off the top of my finger! I can feel the blood welling, and, oh God, oh God! Just like Altan! Just like Altan! I feel sick and grab the dish towel, wrapping it tightly around my severed digit as the guys come running into the room.

“Maela! Are you OK? What’s happened?” Emlyn is the first to reach me.

“I, I, I,” I stutter, holding up my hand. “Pick it up. If we put it in ice, the doctors might be able to reattach it.”

“Pick what up? What do you mean?”

“The top of my finger. I cut it off cutting that damned pumpkin.” One big, fat tear gathers, hovers, and rolls down my cheek.

Emlyn goes white and quickly glances at the countertop.

“Do you see it?” I wobble. “Pick it up.”

He turns back to me, biting his lip. “Maela.” There’s an odd note to his voice, and my stomach turns over. “Maela,” he repeats. “Let me have a look at your hand.”

“K-kay,” I sniffle. Jorge and Kavi come round to stand on either side as Emlyn unwraps the dishtowel. I glance away; I can’t bear to look.

“Maela,” Emlyn says again, and now I can identify the suppressed laughter in his tones. “You haven’t cut off the top of your finger. It’s the tiniest cut.”

There’s no way that’s all this is; it hurts far too much. And I definitely felt blood gushing. Steeling myself, I look down. It’s a tiny cut.

“See?” Emlyn coaxes. “You’re fine.” The corner of his mouth is twitching, and I can tell it’s all he can do not to burst out laughing. Beside me, I can feel Kavi’s and Jorge’s shoulders start to shake.

“It really hurt,” I say in a small voice.

“Yes,” Emlyn chokes. “I’m sure it did.”

“I need a Band-Aid.”

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