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The kitchen smells of caramelizing onions and roasting carrots, their earthy sweetness mingling with the sharper tang of vinegar from Caroline’s braised greens. She hums under her breath as she stirs, her sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms dusted with flour. The cast-iron skillet hisses when she nudges it with a wooden spoon, adjusting the heat. Outside, the December wind rattles the windowpanes. Still, inside, the stove breathes warmth into the room, painting everything in flickering orange light—the worn copper pots, the jars of dried hibiscus petals, the new photograph framed above the space where the battle scene once hung.
The front door creaks open. Boots scuff against the mat, followed by the heavy sigh only Sallie makes after a day of gripping pamphlets too tight and shouting herself hoarse on courthouse steps. Caroline doesn’t turn around—not yet. She listens: the rustle of woolen layers being shed, the clink of Sallie’s cane against the umbrella stand, the pause—that particular silence.
“You took it down.” Sallie’s voice is rough with exhaustion, but there’s no accusation—just quiet wonder.
Caroline wipes her hands on her apron. “Mm. Thought the one of us looked better there.” She risks a glance over her shoulder. Sallie hasn’t moved, her gaze fixed on the photograph—Caroline in her burnt-orange dress, Sallie in her sensible gray, both of them squinting against the sun last summer, arms linked, laughing at some joke lost to time.
Sallie exhales through her nose, unsteady. “Weren’t you fond of that painting?”
Caroline shrugs. “Wasn’t fond of staring at men killing each other while we ate.” She turns fully now, leaning back against the counter. “Especially not after…” She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.
Sallie crosses the room in three strides, her cane abandoned against the table. She smells of cold air and ink, the Egyptian oil she rubs into her wrists in the mornings almost worn away by now. Caroline catches her by the elbows, thumbs smoothing over the familiar, worn patches of Sallie’s sleeves.
“Tell me,” Caroline murmurs into her hair.
Sallie’s laugh is a damp thing, pressed into Caroline’s shoulder. “Same as ever. Angry men. Patience running thin.” She tucks closer, her nose against Caroline’s collarbone. “Smells like home in here.”
Caroline kisses her temple and reaches blindly for the spoon again, stirring one-handed. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Sallie makes a muffled noise against her neck, half protest, half contentment. “Five more minutes.”
The wind howls as they sway like that, clinging, until the onions threaten to burn.