Wicked Like a Wildfire (Hibiscus Daughter #1)(8)
“So I’ve heard. What new boy?”
Nev arched a wispy eyebrow and whistled low. “You really don’t remember him? I’d never seen him at Filip’s before, and he didn’t look like a local. No idea who he knew. He was fucking gorgeous, though, I mean, damn. You were passing his joint back and forth, and saying something about how you could make a galaxy out of the ceiling for him if you had just enough.” She snorted. “The way he was looking at you, I think he thought some kind of big bang was nigh, for sure. Whatever you were talking about, wanna teach me your ways? Always room for more boy-finagling tricks in the lady arsenal.”
For a moment, I almost did remember something: the Christmas lights on Nevena’s ceiling swirling like a nebula at the behest of my own twirling finger, and a tattooed arm alongside mine as we traced the whirlpools together.
But that was impossible. I wasn’t strong enough anymore to make the bloom visible to anyone else, and it had been years since anything but flowers fractaled for me. It must have been a dream, the last wishful moments of waking tiding over into sleep.
I finally shrugged. “Wish I could help, but alas. No idea what I said. Filip’s rotgut rakija slayed me as usual, it’s like I never learn. Serves me right, forgetting a shiny new boy.”
“Well, he knows where you work. You definitely mentioned”—she lowered her voice—“‘Mistress Mean’ out there, I heard that much. It was quite the shrill moment.”
A cold hand gripped my stomach. Had I told him about the gleam? Could I have been that careless and stupid? “Did you hear—did I say anything else to him? Besides promising him the universe, apparently?”
Nev shrugged, jutting out her lower lip to blow a wayward strand out of her eyes. Another faint almost-memory flared, like the afterimage of the sun—a strand of someone else’s hair tickly across my mouth. A warm finger brushing it off for me, before tracing the outline of my face and the hollows beneath my eyes.
“No clue,” she said. “I was busy licking Frangelico off Filip, and you were kind of mumbly by then. I’m not sure when he left, but you were alone by the time everyone else cleared out. He’d tucked you in with a quilt and everything. Maximum cute.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Strangers didn’t usually make it their business to talk to me, much less to coddle me with blankets. But even if it had been a dream, the memory of that fingertip following the curve of my chin—and a light stroke at the tender flesh beneath—made me flush warm underneath my skin.
I stepped back from Nev, rubbing my arms. “Did you need any help here? I’m not sure what to do, given that Jasmina still isn’t deigning to speak to me. Must be Tuesday.”
Nev rolled her eyes. She enjoyed such a smooth, sunny relationship with Mama that it seemed to me like a magic all its own. The permafrost between the two of us baffled her completely. “I think she’ll want to start another batch of the dandelions soon, so you could get a jump on those. We’re making at least eight other desserts today, too, so really just cut up whatever and I guarantee something will happen with it. I think we’re running low on lemonade, too.”
Café Tadi? wasn’t actually anything so simple as one of the Old Town’s real cafés, which served cappuccinos and thick Turkish coffee, peach nectar and Pepsi, sandwiches and desserts that gathered dust for days in their tiered displays. My mother’s café was a confectionery more than anything else. Some days she baked doe’s back cake, a roulade of airy hazelnut dough and chocolate ganache dusted with ground hazelnuts, yet there was always an element of surprise—a sprig of mint that should have soured the cake, but that instead put you in mind of a glen in the woods. And with the next bite, a speck of wild strawberry, the kind that grew alongside forest trails, until you felt you walked them yourself with the liquid gleam of a fawn’s eyes fixed on you from the bush.
Mama’s desserts were nothing if not suspenseful.
Other days, she made floating islands, fluffy lumps of spongy, unset meringue bobbing in creamy zabaglione and laced with orange syrup, violet preserves, and a powder she ground from bee pollen, so that every bite tasted exactly like late spring sunshine. She churned her own gelato too, but her chocolate stracciatella was always streaked like a sunset with other things, marmalade and rose hip jelly and crystallized chips of honey, and somehow it put you in mind of the sky—the held breath of twilight, the sanctity of dusk, and the final slippage into night. And you knew that when she looked at the sky, this was the taste that bloomed in her mouth. Like me with my glasswork, Mama lived and breathed for the alchemy that went on in her kitchen. Her ingredients were so exquisite that most of our profit funneled back into buying more raw material. Sometimes I thought she would keep baking macarons that tasted like dandelion clocks drifting on a summer wind long after we ran out of money for bread and bologna and Carnex vegetable paté.
“So what is it you’re going for today?”
I whirled around, trying not to upset the mixing bowl I’d been cracking eggs into for fresh batter. Nev caught her breath in the corner, loud enough that Mama turned to her, absently tucking a stray strand behind her ear. She did that often, patting Nev’s shoulder or stroking her flyaway doll’s hair when they worked beside each other. It wasn’t Nev’s fault—she was naturally pettable—but no matter how many times I saw it, the knife never stopped twisting.