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Nervous blue eyes watch every move. Jumps at every clatter of metal bowls or even the sound of the ceramic measuring spoons against the glass mixing bowl. The clock on the wall that had been repaired just slightly crooked. The way that the kitchen timer ticks just loud enough.
The morning had started out stressful. Mary Wardwell was sat in the Spellmans’ kitchen, wanting nothing more than to draw her legs up to her but knowing it was rude.
Hilda Spellman worked around the anxious woman, glancing up at her now and again to check on her, but not so often as to make her feel watched.
It’s been silent for twenty minutes, Mary’s picnic basket sitting over by the sink, cookie crumbs still littering the bottom of it. Hilda had tried to help her sort them out, and pick up the cookies from the foyer. Mary had offered to sweep, but Hilda had decided that it could be sorted out later.
Mary sips at her tea, the temperature tepid with her stalling. And Hilda wanted nothing more than to refill it, to add more warmth back in. The only thing stopping her was the fact that Mary hadn’t sipped enough to warrant it.
.
..
...
“I don’t think your sister likes me,” Mary says, and it’s the first they’ve spoken of the incident in half an hour.
Hilda, currently kneading dough, looked up. She had wondered if Mary Wardwell would say something on the matter.
“Ah- I wouldn’t say that.”
Mary frowns. “No, I’m certain of it. If she did like me, she wouldn’t have so angrily pushed away my basket.”
Hilda frowns, then. “My sister can always be a little temperamental. Please don’t think any less of her for it. She’s been under a lot of stress.”
At this, Mary tilts her head. “Pardon my— if I overstep, but she wasn’t very kind to you either, Ms Spellman.”
It happened in the foyer. Mary Wardwell coming over to ask Sabrina a question. More to talk about a concern. When cleaning her cottage, in a nervous state, one might add, the idea kept coming to Mary to check on Sabrina. If something was wrong. Or right. And while Mary thought the idea was ridiculous, Sabrina was one of the few students she had spoken to about her memory loss so—so freely.
They used to speak of all manner of things before Mary’s unfortunate... amnesia. Sabrina started appearing more distant, and Mary feared that Sabrina was cross with her somehow. Maybe cookies would help? Being cross would explain Sabrina’s sudden apathy.
But when she appeared, seeing Zelda Spellman, something changed. Mary knew that Hilda was the one who came to every parent teacher conference, but she could have never imagined it was because Zelda didn’t like her. Zelda knocked the basket out of her hands immediately, and it took Hilda’s more emotionally aware presence to usher Zelda off and help Mary with the basket.
She seemed just as timid as Hilda had ever seen her, but perhaps a bit less excitable.
So here they were now.
.
..
...
“I’ll send you home with a fresh batch of almond cookies, love.”
They’d spoken, and Hilda had seen no signs of lingering memories in the woman. In fact, Mary was just as soft spoken as any time Hilda had encountered her before, perhaps more so with Zelda’s quick actions and sharp tongue.
It was fair. The woman had shot her. But Sabrina had wiped her memory. And to Hilda, it was interesting... she hadn’t changed much besides her uneven bangs, parted gently at one side of her face. Besides Lilith...
Mary glanced up at the offer. The kindness Ms Spellman—Hilda Spellman—was showing her. And Mary blushed and looked away.
“I shouldn’t be troubling you, Ms Spellman,” she says, awkwardly. “I would hate to be a bother to you and your sister. Especially—um... Sabrina’s out, I expect.”
Hilda nodded. “Yes, to the cinema with some friends.”
Mary nodded in return. It was even worse now. She came and bothered them for nothing, it seemed.
“Ms Wardwell, would you like to help?”
Mary looked up, somewhat curious and confused. “What?”
“You’ve been tapping your hands on the table for a while. I figured, perhaps, you’d like to help? You seem to have known what you were doing before?”
It was inviting, and Mary was hesitant but eventually did incline her head to join Hilda. Hilda explained to Mary what had been done so far, and Mary smiles. “Hmmm, have you added vanilla? Extra vanilla. And cinnamon?”
“Is that your secret ingredient?” Hilda asks her, handing her the bottle of vanilla extract.
“It seems to be. I add in far too much, but no one seems to mind, Mary admits. “Sometimes I worry, but I’m known for them, sometimes. And chocolate chip cookies. And shortbread.”
“So you like to bake then?” Hilda is smiling, leaving the mixing bowl with Mary to bring her the cinnamon. As Mary begins to add it, Hilda is astounded by how her fingers sprinkle in the tiniest amount to the mix. She appeared gentler. Less scared. And something about the way—ah—the hand. The steadiest hand. Hilda smiles.
“I do,” Mary says, when the cinnamon is mixed in. She hands the bowl back to Hilda, who asked her to bring her the baking sheet. Mary does so, preparing it with the butter Hilda had left out.
“Are cookies your favorite, then?”
Mary nods, then shakes her head, then nods again. “Desserts. I like desserts.”
The light is fading and coming, the result of a cloudy day, and Hilda hands her the bowl again, as the sun streams in and Mary’s blue eyes are more easily seen. She seems more at ease now, with Hilda. And Hilda regrets ever suggesting giving such a sweet woman to the Pagans. She may have shot Zelda, but it didn’t seem that she would want to now. At all.
“So do you have a secret ingredient?”
Hilda looks up, surprised. She laughs, and replies, “so many. Cyanide is one.” It’s obviously said in a flippant tone, and without thinking. But Mary, whom Hilda was worried about offending, looks with a mischievous grin.
“Well, better than what I used to spike my fiancé’s drink with. Club soda in an orange juice. Not very appetizing when you’re not expecting it,” she says.
It’s surprising how well Mary took that. And Hilda wondered if this was the woman truly feeling safe with her.
“No, that doesn’t seem fun.”
As Hilda sets down a measuring cup, replacing it from earlier, a cloud of flour makes it’s way into the air, and when it settles, Mary’s nose is covered with flour. Her glasses lenses too.
It may have been rude, but Hilda laughed. And Mary laughs too, even if she can’t see. Perhaps because she can’t see. “Ah, this happens far too often,” she says, laughingly.
Hilda takes the glasses from Mary’s face, the light dusting over her face thin by comparison.
“Shall I wash these?”
“If you don’t mind?”
Hilda does so, carefully. Herbal soap and all, before placing them back on Mary’s face.
The kind look that crosses her doesn’t look at all like a killer and Hilda smiles. “Believe me, I know. When I wear my reading glasses—oh! It’s awful. Mary laughs. “I see. Or, perhaps I didn’t. Just a moment ago.”
Hilda laughs back.
And the two go back and forth, sharing small stories. Even if they’re on the surface, it’s something. They talk about knitting as the cookies bake. They almost burn, the two get so invested. They talk about types of honey, of yarn, of wools, of glasses, cooking, and even family.
It eventually gets time to go, Hilda hearing Zelda pacing upstairs and the woman having walked through the woods instead of driving.
“I should go,” Mary says, and Hilda is surprised how different it sounds from Lilith’s voice. She should have known. “But it was lovely being here.”
Hilda walks with her to the door, Mary’s basket smelling of almond cookies, vanilla, and spices yet again.
“Can we do this again?” Mary asks.
“Without the destruction of your baked goods? I don’t see why not?”
And it seems funny how in the fading light, Mary’s smile grows and grows. Beaming. Replacing the sun. “Thank you.” She begins down the steps, Hilda watching her go. But before she hits the path, she turns, holding up the basket. “I’ve always wanted a friend like you. Thank you, Ms Spellman!”
“Call me Hilda!” She shouts back as Mary darts back towards the wooded path. And before the door closes entirely, she can hear the faintest echo of a cheerful, exuberant call.
“—Mary!”
Hilda closes the door, and goes for the vacuum. The rest of the cookie crumbs in the foyer wouldn’t be swept away themselves, now would they?