Clockwork Firefly

Clockwork Firefly - Chapter Twenty-Three

Pete had been jubilant in his success. He'd finally gotten the hand to work properly. Looking at the stairs, he knew there was no reason he should not go up, and after a moment, the unmistakable scent of roasting meat began to drift down. Obviously the door upstairs had been left ajar. One foot then the other, his uncertainty fading as he made up his mind to rejoin his family in the Manor proper. Following his nose he opened the kitchen door and peered in, seeing no one, but the stove was full of various bubbling pots that hinted somebody was in there. "Hello?"

A moment later, a woman popped up, a pair of oven mitts over her hands, a steaming roast between them. She was, he had to admit, rather pretty in a country sort of way, devoid of artifice, her hair pulled up under a kerchief, her face flushed pink. She stared at him open-mouthed, and he felt a flush of self-consciousness, aware of how he looked. A moment later, she set the meat down with a muttered grumble and shook off the mitts, obviously having felt the heat through them.

"Hello, Colonel Walter." She could tell it was him, even if he was almost ghostly in appearance. She knew in her head he was not the same man, but her heart was none the less hammering. "Dinner will be served in about a half hour or so."

She wasn't the usual cook, nor did her face ring any bells. Two and two went together quickly and he made a small 'aha' gasp. "You must be Miss Mickleson?" He asked, his smile polite. "I have heard a lot about you." He noticed her shaking and the way she wouldn't look at him. "You don't have to be frightened, Miss. I'm not contagious."

She lifted her eyes, really looking at him. The alabaster of his skin, the blue of his lips and hair. Then beyond that to his eyes. They were hazel and devoid of anything more than a self-conscious kind of interest. She eased her tense stance a bit. "I know, Sir. You've suffered a great deal. I am sorry if I offended you." She could not see in his actions or attitude, any hint of the man who had shamed and beaten her. "Would you care for something to drink? Dinner won't be ready for a half hour or so." She still kept him in the corner of her vision as she checked the potatoes boiling away on the stove top.

He nodded and had not taken a step before she was moving to get a glass and fill it with cool water from the ice box, holding it out to him at arms length. He took it and gave a lift as if toasting before taking a sip. "So, I've only heard about you from the others. Why don't you tell me about yourself. Where are you from, Mary?" His tone strictly conversational.

"Virginia."

"Really? We were going there before I got so sick." His cheery tone faded as he frowned a bit, looking confused. "No... we went. Father told me we did go, but I don't remember it. I think, from the way they avoid the question that I did something very bad." She could see it was tearing him up. She could only guess what he might be imagining.

"Whatever it was you might have done, Mr. Walter, you don't remember, and you shouldn't try. It wasn't you, not really. You weren't yourself." She could not fully hide the crack in her voice.

He noticed her tension, the way she held herself, the offer of the drink at arms length, her unwillingness to look at him but yet constantly assuring herself of just where he was. "I hurt you, didn't I?" He asked it, watching her to see if his words struck true.

She stiffened and then nodded, turning off the burner. She lifted her chin and leveled her eyes at him. "Yes, but you were sick. You didn't mean it." She scooped out the potatoes and set them in a bowl with some milk, the potato masher in hand began to stab at the potatoes and break them up into ever smaller chunks. "My mother used to say that God put our eyes on the front of our heads for a reason. To look ahead, not back."

He watched her mash the potatoes until they were fluffy, thinking hard to try and remember what he might have done, but he couldn't. There were no memories to access. Whatever he had done, she was obviously able to get past it, so he would do his best to do the same. He would not mention it again. "So what brought you to California, Miss Mickleson?"