Chapter 5 Sugars

• The kitchen was quiet at three in the morning.
• Elara woke because the house was too silent. No generator hum. No rain. No footsteps from the east wing. Just the sea, distant and steady. She went downstairs for water and saw the light. A thin line of it under the kitchen door.
• She pushed the door open. Julian sat at the island. His back was to her. His left hand was wrapped in a towel. Blood was soaking through.
• “You are hurt,” she said.
• He did not turn. “Go back to bed.”
• “You are bleeding.”
• “It is fine.”
• “It is not fine.” She crossed the room. The counter was a mess. A mandoline, a bowl of oranges, sugar spilled like sand. He had been slicing. The blade had won.
• She took his hand. He tried to pull back. She held on.
• “Let me see.”
• He let her. The cut was deep. It ran across the pad of his thumb, the same thumb with the old scar. Blood welled and spilled.
• “You need stitches,” she said.
• “I need to finish.”
• “You need to stop.”
• He looked at her then. His eyes were tired and angry and something else she did not want to name.
• “I have a segment at eight,” he said. “I have to test the candied orange for the dessert. If I do not get it right, the network will use the footage of me failing.”
• She went to the sink. She ran the water until it was cold. She guided his hand under it. He hissed.
• “Hold still,” she said.
• “I am still.”
• “You are shaking.”
• He was. She could feel it in his fingers. She found a clean towel. She pressed it to the cut. She used her other hand to turn off the tap.
• “First aid kit,” she said.
• “Pantry. Top shelf.”
• She got it. She came back. She opened it on the counter. Gauze, tape, antiseptic. She worked without talking. She had learned to dress wounds in college. Her roommate had been a clumsy dancer.
• “This will sting,” she said.
• “I know.”
• She cleaned the cut. He did not flinch. His jaw was tight. She watched his face, not the blood.
• “Why were you using the mandoline at three in the morning,” she asked.
• “Because I could not sleep.”
• “Why could you not sleep.”
• He did not answer.
• She wrapped the gauze. She taped it. She was careful. Her fingers were steady. His were not.
• “Do not use that hand tomorrow,” she said.
• “I have to.”
• “You have another hand.”
• He looked at her. “You are very bossy when you are worried.”
• “I am not worried.”
• “Liar.”
• She finished the tape. She did not let go of his hand right away. His skin was warm. The kitchen smelled like oranges and metal.
• “Thank you,” he said. His voice was low.
• “You are welcome.”
• She let go. She stepped back. The space between them was small. The island was between them. It felt like Rome again. Small kitchens, small arguments, small touches that meant everything.
• He looked at the bowl of oranges. “I was trying to remember.”
• “Remember what.”
• “The night we made this. In the apartment. The stove only had two burners. You burned the sugar. I laughed. You threw a towel at me.”
• She remembered. She had been twenty seven. She had never made caramel before. He had stood behind her and put his hands over hers on the pot.
• “You said sugar was about patience,” she said.
• “You said patience was a lie chefs told to feel important.”
• He smiled then. It was small. It was real. It had been five years since she saw that smile.
• “Do it again,” she said.
• “What.”
• “The caramel. Show me.”
• “I cannot. My hand.”
• “Use your other hand. I will be your other hand.”
• He studied her. He looked at the oranges. He looked at the sugar.
• “Okay,” he said.
• She washed her hands. She stood next to him. He guided her with his good hand.
• “Sugar in the pan,” he said. “No water. Just heat.”
• She did it. The pan was heavy. The flame was low.
• “Watch,” he said. “It will go from white to clear to gold. You have to watch. If you look away, it burns.”
• She watched. The sugar melted. It turned clear. Then it turned the color of honey. Then the color of old pennies.
• “Now,” he said.
• She pulled the pan off the heat. He added a slice of orange with his good hand. The caramel seized and hissed. The smell was bright and bitter and sweet.
• He took the slice out with a fork. He set it on parchment. It was glassy and gold.
• “Try,” he said.
• She broke a piece. She put it in her mouth. It was sugar and orange and time.
• She closed her eyes. “It is perfect.”
• He made a sound. “It is not perfect. It is honest.”
• She opened her eyes. He was looking at her, not the candy.
• “Elara,” he said.
• She waited.
• “Do not do that,” he said.
• “Do what.”
• “Look at me like that.”
• “Like what.”
• “Like you remember.”
• “I do remember.”
• “That is the problem.”
• The kitchen was quiet. The cut on his hand was covered. The caramel was cooling.
• She stepped back. “You should sleep.”
• “You should too.”
• Neither moved.
• “I kept the twist tie,” he said.
• She stopped breathing. “What.”
• “The one from the bread. From the night I asked you. I kept it in my wallet. For a year.”
• She pressed her hand to the counter. “I kept the menu. From the restaurant. The one I reviewed. I wrote your name on the back.”
• He closed his eyes. “God.”
• “I am sorry,” she said.
• “I am sorry too.”
• The caramel cracked as it cooled. The sound was small and sharp.
• “I will clean up,” she said.
• “I will help.”
• “No. You will go to bed. You will not use that hand.”
• He looked like he wanted to argue. He did not. He went to the door.
• “Elara.”
• “Yes.”
• “Thank you. For my hand.”
• She nodded. “Sleep.”
• He left. The kitchen was empty. The bowl of oranges sat on the counter. The jar of lemons from the cellar was still there too.
• She cleaned. She put the caramel in a tin. She labeled it with a piece of tape. She wrote Test One.
• She went upstairs. She did not sleep.
• At five, the crew arrived. At six, the cameras came on.
• At eight, Julian presented the candied orange. His left hand was taped. He used his right. The segment went well. The network was pleased.
• No one saw the tin on the back of the counter. No one saw the words on the tape.
• She did. She saw it every time she walked past.
• Test One. Of what, she was not sure. Patience. Sugar. Them.
• Three days to Friday. Three days to the reveal.
• She was not sure what would burn first.