Page 36 of Wateredge

A history that was very clearly still roaming around, judging by the creaks coming from the second storey and Seren’s immediate nervous and embarrassed reaction to it. Lark wanted to tell her that she did not fear ghosts, that she’d grown up with them, that living on the bayou, one simply could not avoid their ephemeral presence.

It was a picture that stopped her in her tracks and almost toppled her. A picture and a name. If the house told stories, the wall of photographs illustrated them. Stories as old as the faces on fading paper. And one face Lark had recognized. One face had walked with her younger self down the bayou throughout her childhood. In the crowd of Navy nurses, among the Sacred Twenty, there she was. The one who kept lonely Lark company in the swamps. And near her sat the one whom she mourned. The Crowhart chiseled cheekbones were impossible to ignore.

And then Deryn said Seren’s full name, and some things, some mysteries, became a lot clearer.

Seren Gwen.

Well, middle names were indeed given for a reason, Lark supposed.

She managed to tear her eyes away from the pictures, managed to swallow her questions for now and pay a bit more attention to her surroundings and to the twins.

The house the townies called Crow House held light and gleaming wooden floors and affection. It held joy. It also held silences.

Not overtly visible, not now with Deryn Crowhart putting on a veritable show for her benefit—and Lark was fairly certain the performance of the baking class was for her and perhaps to get Seren a bit miffed, a state that she was steadily working toward. But the house, despite the laughter and noise, felt like it was waiting, steady and cozy and patient.

The house reminded Lark of Seren, as ridiculous as that sounded. And yet, it felt like her, it smelled like her, it held space, comfortable and safe, just like the older twin. Lark found herself luxuriating in the stillness of the air, in the security of the wooden beams. She wanted to walk through the rooms, touch the banister and draw on the fogged up windows. She felt… at home. A remarkable feeling, really, since nowhere had felt like this in her twenty-seven years of life.

She caressed the old marble countertop, feeling the subtle veins, the curves and ridges of craftsmanship under her hands. Even the stone, aged and storied, felt alive in this space.

The twins, just like the house, were an unmissable sight. Lark flexed her fingers on the edge of the counter and watched Deryn bloom gelatin. That’s what she called the process, and Seren scoffed at the use of the word.

“You’re just sprinkling it.”

Deryn poked her tongue at her twin and kept her hands steady as she indeed sprinkled the powder—she made a point of clarifying that while gelatin sheets were great, powdered was much more precise for this recipe—over cold milk in a little saucepan.

“It’s called blooming, Seren, you ignorant philistine.”

“Why?” Seren leaned against the counter opposite Lark and crossed her arms over her chest, her biceps bulging slightly in this pose, even under the clearly too-big sweater she was wearing. It was an old garment, some holes showed the white T-shirt she wore underneath, and Lark felt the sudden urge to come closer, to slide her hands underneath the knitted thread and⁠—

Lark swallowed, tried to focus, and turned back to Deryn, who was waving her mixing spoon at Seren’s supposed ignorance.

“It allows the gelatin to melt, to bloom, to take body, before I heat it up and let it be.”

Deryn proceeded to do just that as she transferred the little saucepan to the stove, her back now to them. Seren poked her tongue right back at her sister.

“You’re making up all of this poetry as you go.”

Deryn turned slightly and beamed.

“You can think what you want; this is the stuff of legends. As Lark here mentioned, I won awards for this recipe.”

Seren rolled her eyes, and Deryn went back to stirring. Lark smiled at the sisterly dynamic. Her own childhood did not hold such teasing or bickering. Joy was not something that was easily found in the Thibodeaux household. Her mother and her sermons on duty, piety and zealotry had seen to that.

“You dissolve the sugar and the vanilla in the mixture now.” Deryn’s steady hands added the ingredients, still stirring, still winking playfully at her sister. “You know, you can simply admit that you needed help.”

“Der, I can follow a recipe. I don’t have the time.”

Seren sighed and came closer to watch her sister work. Lark bit her lip before something she wasn’t ready for came out, but her mind was already in overdrive.

“You need panna cotta for the coffee shop?”

Seren nodded absentmindedly, clearly focused on what Deryn was doing.

“It’s pretty much a little of everything. Coffee and mocktails are what the coffee shop is known for. Still, with so many businesses—like, let’s say, a second-rate bakery that opened not too far from me—now offering a variety of pastries, I have to keep up. My staff are baristas, not bakers, so I need to figure this part out.”

“Which is why I am teaching her to fish.” Deryn removed the saucepan from the stove, gave it a few minutes to cool down, then added cold cream before placing the little receptacle in the fridge. “And I offered to bake enough for her. However, I’m not on the island all the time, with my travel and TV schedule, and she said I’m not dependable. Your words.” Deryn poked a finger into Seren’s midriff, obviously encountered rock-hard abs, and shook her hand out with a painful expression.

“Girl of fucking steel.”