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“What is that hell-sent smell?”
Hilda sighed. Zelda tended to have opinions about what she baked, especially if it was something her sister considered “fattening.”
“Bread, sister,” answered Hilda, though Zelda was already making her way to the oven, and could clearly see for herself what was inside.
“It smells divine,” said Zelda, breathing in the aroma with a look of satisfaction on her face.
Hilda stopped mixing the ingredients in her bowl to look up in surprise. “Really?”
“Yes, sister. There is no smell more glorious than this one.” Zelda’s eyes were closed as she took several deep breaths. Hilda looked at her in curiosity. It was unusual for her sister to express interest in her baking; Zelda had always been finicky about food—in their Academy years, Hilda knew Zelda to go for days without so much as a piece of toast, surviving on cigarettes, alcohol, and sex alone—and whenever she was under any undue stress, she tended to “forget” about food altogether. As it was, ever since Zelda had returned from her honeymoon, it was a daily struggle for Hilda to ensure that her sister wasn’t wasting away.
“I’m afraid it won’t be done for another fifteen minutes,” said Hilda, “but we have some leftover meatloaf from last night if you’re hungry.”
“I’m over three centuries old. I think I can wait fifteen minutes for a piece of bread,” said Zelda, opening her eyes after taking one last deep breath. “Do you need help with that?”
Zelda indicated the bowl in Hilda’s hand, which contained a mixture of eggs, flour, and sugar that she had been stirring before getting distracted. Hilda only barely contained her surprise at the offer.
“Are you sure? I know how busy you are drafting a new manifesto for the Church of Lilith,” said Hilda, stirring the batter once more.
“I could use a break—and a distraction,” said Zelda, her hands coming up to rub at her eyes. Hilda knew that her sister hadn’t been sleeping well—she could hear the screams from down the hall each night, and would sneak back into her old room to make sure Zelda was alright. The nightmares were clearly distressing, but Zelda refused to talk about them, so Hilda just stayed with her until she fell back asleep. Lately, she found herself waking up with her arms still wrapped around Zelda in comfort. It might not be much, but it was the least that Hilda could do. She hoped Ambrose found Blackwood sooner rather than later; she suspected Zelda wouldn’t sleep easily again until Judas and Leticia were returned, and Blackwood executed for his crimes.
“Well, then, I suppose I could use an extra pair of hands,” said Hilda, passing Zelda the bowl, but before she could begin stirring, Hilda stopped her with a chuckle, “—after you’ve washed them, of course.”
“Really, sister?” said Zelda, rolling her eyes, but walking to the sink in obedience, nevertheless.
“Just because we’re witches, doesn’t mean we can’t get sick,” said Hilda, smiling affectionately at the way Zelda tested the water’s temperature a few times before deciding it was warm enough. From this angle, however, Hilda could see the way Zelda’s clothes hung loose around her hips, and the smile faded away.
Finished washing her hands, Zelda turned towards her, holding them up as if to prove they were clean. “Satisfied?”
“Yes,” said Hilda, before using magic to retrieve a second apron. “You should put this on, too, so that you don’t get your clothes covered in flour.”
Zelda eyed the apron with disdain. “Kiss the Cook” was written across the breast in bright red stitching. It was old—the color was faded and there were several suspicious stains down the front that resisted both mortal and witch methods of cleaning alike—but it was no less capable of protecting one’s clothes.
“Are there no other aprons?”
“Most of them are in the laundry,” Hilda lied, smoothly, as Zelda took it from her hands. Hilda couldn’t resist this opportunity to tease her sister, so rarely did the chance arise.
“We should have gotten rid of this one years ago,” said Zelda absently as she slipped the apron over her head. She was in the middle of tying it tightly around her shrinking waistline when she realized what she had said and her eyes went wide.
“It was a gift,” said Hilda, all humor gone, though she knew the words were unnecessary from the earnest look of apology on Zelda’s face, “from Diana.”
“I remember,” said Zelda, grabbing the bowl once more and beginning to stir like a woman possessed.
“Hey, it’s okay,” said Hilda, placing a hand on Zelda’s arm to slow her down. “It’s just an apron—and you’re right: it’s old and filthy.”
“I remember when she gave it to you,” said Zelda, her eyes glazed over as if the memory was playing in her mind’s eye. “It was a birthday gift. I mocked her for thinking that we would celebrate such things when we age so slowly. After three centuries, one hardly feels the need to revel in one’s longevity. I told her as much.”
Hilda busied herself with the tea kettle, thinking it wise not to comment.
“I was so cruel to her. My own sister-in-law. Why?” said Zelda, her voice hoarse with emotion.
Setting the kettle to boil, Hilda turned back to see that Zelda wasn’t stirring anymore—she was just standing there, with the bowl tucked against her stomach and one hand on the spoon, staring vacantly off into space.
“Diana understood,” said Hilda, placing a hand on Zelda’s shoulder and immediately regretting it when the woman nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Did she? Because I don’t understand it myself,” said Zelda, putting the bowl down so that she could wipe angrily at a stray tear.
“Edward risked so much to marry her,” said Hilda, moving closer, but not touching her. “She knew how difficult it was for you to accept that he would risk tearing his family and the Church or Night apart just for her.”
“She thought Sabrina wasn’t going to be loved, Hilda,” said Zelda, the tears flowing freely now. “Her soul remained in limbo for sixteen years because she didn’t trust me to take care of her daughter.”
“Don’t torture yourself like this, love,” said Hilda, slowly taking Zelda’s hands into her own. Zelda’s face was pale and wet with tears.
“She was right not to trust me,” said Zelda, her face twisted with grief. “I couldn’t protect Leticia. That sweet little girl could be dead by now and it’s my fault.”
“Hey,” admonished Hilda, squeezing Zelda’s hands before letting go and reaching up to wipe away her tears, “I’ll have none of that. Blackwood is to blame, not you. You did everything you could for that child.”
“It wasn’t enough,” said Zelda, closing her eyes.
Not knowing what else to do, Hilda stood on her tiptoes to place a kiss against Zelda’s cheek. Her sister’s eyes shot open at the unexpected contact.
“You are enough, Zelda Spellman. You loved Sabrina and Leticia like your own children. You did everything you could to keep them safe and happy. Diana saw that. She’s at peace now because you were such a wonderful mother. Hold onto that, and let go of everything else.”
“Thank you, Hildie,” said Zelda, smiling through her tears.
“Now, that bread ought to be done by now. What do you say we take a break to have some tea and toast, hmm?”
“I’d like that,” said Zelda, nodding.
And so, Hilda retrieved the bread from the oven, Zelda poured the tea, and the two sisters sat at the table, sharing their favorite memories of Sabrina as a child. Slowly, the color returned to Zelda’s face, the tears dried, and Hilda watched in surprise and relief as her sister ate a healthy helping of bread and butter. For a brief time, everything was just as it should be, and Hilda couldn’t have been more grateful.