Page 130 of Balance
People did strange things without human contact. Hadn’t Miles ever watchedCastaway?
“Stop fidgeting.” Kathleen’s order cut through my thoughts, and she pointed a dripping wooden spoon in my direction without once looking up. “That worried expression of yours is contagious. You’re even makingmenervous, and I need a clear head for this. These are the final moments.” Then she returned to stirring her potion.
I bit my lip, my heartbeat picking up. How could she know what I was thinking? Then there was the content of her statement itself.
Whatwas she working on anyway?
Whatever it was smelled sickly sweet.
InHansel and Gretel,the witch had been trying to fatten up Hansel. Then there was Gretel’s role in the story…
I might have been heartless, but I was still hesitant to push my adoptive grandmother into a pot of boiling water, or oven. It really depended on which version of the story we were going with.
Such measures had always seemed rather extreme, and I was starting to grow somewhat fond of Kathleen.
Cautiously wary—that would be the proper term.
Moving forward, my adoptive grandmother and I would have a complex relationship. She couldn’t be all bad. After all, she had given me more information than anyone else. At least someone still respected authority around here.
We’d discussed quintets, my biological mother, and even my adoptive parents. But why hadn’t she brought up her own group?
“Can you tell me about your quintet?” I spoke before thinking, and the sound of my own question startled me. The rising heat in my face had nothing to do with the heavy, warm air trapped in Kathleen’s cabin.
The query shocked her too—she’d paused briefly before slowly lowering the lid back and raising her gaze to me. The sickly-sweet scent seemed to fill the room, making it harder to breathe and think.
“My quintet?” she asked, gray brows lifting and eyes darkening with memories.
“Yes…” I pulled at the hem of my shirt, twisting a fraying edge between my pointer finger and thumb. “Do you all get along?”
Her gaze traveled over me for a moment, lips pursing in thought. For a long second, I wondered if she understood what I meant. Then she sighed, setting the spoon on the table beside her project. “No,” she said, wiping her hands on her skirts. “Not all of us. Like any relationship, quintets are hard work. You have different personalities being forced to work together, and sometimes individuals might not ever agree. In my quintet, Blake and Gregory are the troublemakers.”
Dr. Stephens? Well, it was true that he was very unagreeable, but who was Blake?
“Who is in your quintet?”
“Blake MacClure is our werewolf, and then Gregory,” she answered, her attention wandering toward the window. “Obviously, there’s me, and then Joe—he’s Julian’s grandfather.”
“That’s four,” I whispered.
“We’re the only ones left.” Her pensive expression shuttered. “Michael has been gone for a long time.”
“Gone?”
She didn’t elaborate. Instead, she pulled at her hair. Waves of gray fell over her shoulders and down her arms as the shadows in the room began to lengthen.
“I was friends with them. Gregory in particular. And my quintet respected my need for privacy.” She leaned more heavily on the table. “But I never wanted to join. I’d lost a barter.”
I blinked at her—I’d leaned forward without realizing. Once I’d caught myself, I fisted my hands at my side.
She was fine. She didn’t need help. She’d ask, right?
Guilt and anxiety twisted in my stomach, and a line of sweat began to drip down my spine. If I was a better person—morecaring, then I’d have no trouble rushing to her and offering my help. But old people and I really had never seen eye to eye—their blanket of authority was hard to ignore, and my nerves could never handle it.
Or maybe I was just a coward. But doing the wrong thing was better than doing nothing, right? I couldn’thurther, right?
I was never serious about shoving her into the fire.
There had been a small pitcher at the window at one point, but where was it now? The only thing there now was a collection of jars.
