Whichwood(66)

For now, however, they were the best of friends.

And tonight the living room was warm and bright and festooned with winter flowers. The snow fell softly outside the frosted windows of the old castle, and Laylee closed her eyes, humming along to a song she half remembered. Madarjoon was reminding Oliver how to set a table, while Benyamin and Alice carried steaming dishes into the dining room in preparation for their dinner. The air was thick with the aroma of saffron and fresh turmeric, cinnamon and salted olive oil; fresh bread was cooling on the kitchen counter beside large plates of fluffy rice, sautéed raisins, heaps of barberries, and sliced almonds. Feta cheese was stacked beside a small mountain of fresh walnuts—still soft and damp—and handfuls of basil, mint, scallions, and radishes. There were spiced green beans, ears of grilled corn, dense soups, bowls of olives, and tricolored salads. There was so much food, in fact, I simply cannot describe it all. But dinners like these were fast becoming tradition for the mordeshoor and her adopted family, and they would spend the evenings eating until their teeth grew tired of chewing, happily collapsing into sleepy heaps on the living room floor. There, they would finish out the night laughing and talking—and though they could not have known what the future would bring, they did know this:

In one another they’d found spaces to call home, and they would never be apart again.




Until next time, dear reader.





THE END