Page 68 of Sparrow

The thought brings warmth to my chest, and I settle in to watch. Though now I realize that I do have a question.

“Why have you decided to make cinnamon rolls?”

She brushes a lock of hair out of her face with her wrist. “I helped Penny make her bakery more efficient, so she taught me how to make your cinnamon rolls. She even gave me the whole recipe. Told me you’d love me forever if I could make them. She won’t give me the recipe for that apple pie, though. She says it’s a family secret and she won’t let go of it until the day she dies.”

“That’s rich,” I note. “She doesn’t have any kids. Who’s going to carry it on once she’s gone?”

Arden chuckles. “Have you seen the woman? She has as much energy as I do. I don’t think she’s capable of going anywhere.”

“I hope not. Who would make me cinnamon rolls then?”

“Me. Obviously.”

I grow quiet at that, because in the space of three minutes, she’s now thrown around the word ‘love’ and said she’ll be around to bake me cinnamon rolls after Penny is gone, and I don’t even think she noticed. Just regular conversation, as if it didn’t matter.

As if these were the sorts of things people say every day.

And maybe for some people, they are. But they’ve never been everyday conversation for me. Hell, I’ve never heard them from anyone before, even on a monthly or yearly basis.

No one has ever promised to bake me anything, much less my favorite cinnamon rolls.

I look now at the tiny girl who just volunteered to do just that, and let my eyes run over her body. She’s tinier than almost anyone I know, but she lives in her body like there’s nothing she can’t do. She’s still looking frail, like she needs to eat more–which is a laugh, considering how much she already eats–but her cheeks have more color than they used to.

Though that might be because she’s angry at the cinnamon rolls.

She’s got highlights in her hair from three days of going into town and she’s filling out her clothes better than she used to. She’s also smiling more, and humming to herself.

It’s amazing what a few days in a safe home will do for a girl, and I wonder again why her father hasn’t called, looking for her. Why hasn’t my sister said anything about her missing stepdaughter? Why didn’t Roberto pay the fucking ransom?

How has this girl been missing for months without a single move from anyone?

If she left my house, she’d leave a hole big enough to hold a mountain. I can’t imagine losing her and not doing whatever it took to get her back.

She turns and pulls a rack out of the oven, steam billowing out around her small form, and for a moment I’m sure she’s burned the entire batch of pastries.

Then she emerges from the steam grinning like a maniac.

“They’re done,” she says triumphantly. “Hold, please. Must ice them.”

“Holding,” I say solemnly.

She slides the tray onto the counter, grabs a bowl of something, and does an extremely haphazard job of putting icing on the cinnamon rolls. Then she uses a spatula to get one out and puts it on a plate. She carries the plate to me like she’s presenting the crown jewels, and then steps back, all expectation.

“Well?” she breathes. “Taste it.”

God, I hope this is as good as she expects it to be.

I try to pick it up but it’s like trying to hold molten lava and I drop it immediately. Arden hands me a fork, looking like she thinks I’m an idiot for trying to use my fingers, and I take it without answering the look on her face.

I cut a piece off with the fork, blow on it for a second, and then put it in my mouth and chew slowly.

I may actually be insane, but it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.

“These are better than Penny’s,” I say honestly.

I look up to see her barely holding it together. She’s got tears in her eyes and her lips are wobbling, and for a moment I think I’ve hurt her by complimenting her baking. But how? Isn’t it a good think to think someone’s cinnamon rolls are good? How could that possibly make her cry?

Then she laughs and wipes at her tears.