Scarred Roses

Chapter eight: Fairy wings and other scandalous things

"How many cups of cocoa-powder?" Ingrid asked, puzzled as she tried to clear away years of dust and flour from the pages of the overused recipe book.

"Only half, I think. Overload it with cocoa, and it'll be too bitter."

"True-and that's one and a half cups of sugar, isn't it? To make it extra sweet."

"When we're making chocolate mud-cake Ingrid, it needs to be extra sweet."

I was at Ingrid's house, in Ingrid's kitchen, as we partook wholeheartedly in our shared, favourite past-time. Baking. This, we haven't done properly since 42-back when we were limited to plain, old biscuits on which we were forced to skimp on nearly every ingredient-even flour. Now that we had our rich foods back, we'd decided to restart our weekly baking-escapades with our favourite; chocolate mud-cake. The kind that was so dense and rich, you could only ever eat it with a spoon. Oh, how I missed all things chocolate! The only kind we could get during the war was this crumbly, bitter stuff which nearly cost a weeks worth' of rations. Now I could eat enough chocolate to make me sick!

"I can't wait until it's cooked!" Ingrid moaned, practically salivating at the idea. "Then we can drown in it chocolate sauce!"

"If it were up to me, we'd leave the cake and just have the sauce," I said, grinning. "But we can't be completely unhealthy."

"Hey, chocolate is sourced from cocoa-beans, which is technically a vegetable, so if you really think about it, it's all very nutritional."

"Of course it is-then you add copious amounts of cream and sugar, until it becomes sweet, heavenly, milky chocolate."

Taking turns, we whipped the batter until thin, smooth and upon taste-testing, delicious. After Ingrid had turned up the oven temperature, she greased the baking tin before I spooned the batter in, smoothing the top with the spoon. We had at least half an hour before it'd be ready, so taking a pitcher of cordial from her refrigerator, Ingrid led the way to her back porch where we each poured a glass and sighed as we sank down into the cushioned, cane-chairs.

"I meant to ask by the way, about your Nick."

"He's not my Nick," I said, sipping my drink. "He's my friend-a really good friend actually. When I'm with him, I feel so...so free. Like I can act my age, for once."

"What kind of things do you do together?" She asked, "not baking?"

"You know baking is only ever for you and me," I said to her. "It's a different kind of friendship, I mean. With you I can be a girl, and with him I can be wild. He can be so spontaneous and strange, but in a good way. No day is ever the same with him."

"It sounds liberating," she sighed. "So, does he ever do anything more? Beyond talking, I mean."

"Like what?"

"Does he...hold your hand? Has he ever hugged you before?"

Four times now, but it's not like I was counting, really.

"Yes Ingrid, we've hugged. But they're completely innocent hugs!"

"And does it feel nice? When he hugs you, I mean." Where was all this coming from?

"It's...comforting." I said, "every time he holds me, I feel safe. More than safe. I...don't know what to call it, but it's a nice feeling all the same."

She was the first person I'd ever admitted this to. On the surface it was always Nick who initiated the hugs, who wanted to hold me close for some reason, but I never told aloud that I wanted them too. I liked how warm he was, how strong he was and the way he smelt. Every time I wanted to get closer, somehow.