Chapter 23: Twenty-Four Letters

Finbar's grandmother stood in my mother's kitchen at seven in the morning.

She had her cane in one hand and a velvet box in the other.

"Miss Drinkwater," she said. "I'm told you cook."

"Not well," I said, in Finbar's shirt, with my hair standing up.

Behind me on the stairs, Finbar stopped dead in his socks.

"Grandmother."

"Good morning, Finbar. You look like a man who has been in good company. Eliana, put the kettle on."

Eliana, pink to the ears, put the kettle on.

By nine, the kitchen smelled of onions and butter.

My mother's recipe tin sat open on the counter, with the card for her stew propped against the flour.

It was in her handwriting, round and quick.

I read it aloud, line by line, and Eliana measured.

The old woman sat at the table with her hands folded and corrected both of us.

"Too much pepper," she said.

"It says a teaspoon," said Eliana.

"She put in two. She always did. Look at the stain."

There was a stain on the card, and it was exactly the size of a pepper spill.

Eliana laughed, and the old woman looked startled at herself, and then she laughed too.

Outside, from the direction of the garage, came a series of clangs and one very clear word from the baby.

"Language," called Lydia, who had driven out behind us with a casserole and was washing a pot.

Through the window I could see all five of my brothers around the plant's old delivery truck.

The hood was up, and their sleeves were rolled.

The plant steward had asked for a favor.

The older twin was giving orders, and the pilot was ignoring them, and Barrett was holding the light.

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