“Cinnamon.”
“Yes.”
“Brown sugar?”
“A little.”
“Butter?”
“Some.”
“And apples.”
“No.”
He stared.
Clara smiled faintly.
“You're freezing and hungry. Your judgment is unreliable.”
“My nose works perfectly.”
“Congratulations.”
She ladled soup into a wooden bowl.
Elias looked at it.
“What is it?”
“Food.”
“I gathered.”
“Then don't complicate things.”
He accepted the bowl.
Potato.
Onion.
Turnip.
A little salt pork.
Not much.
The first spoonful made him close his eyes.
Clara noticed.
She pretended not to.
“How long since you've eaten properly?”
Elias swallowed.
“Depends what properly means.”
“Food that did not come from your pocket.”
“Yesterday morning.”
Clara stopped stirring.
“That is not yesterday evening.”
“No.”
She cut bread.
He ate slowly at first.
Then faster.
Clara placed another slice beside him without comment.
Elias looked at it.
“You'll make me feel guilty.”
“Then eat with remorse.”
He smiled.
“You always this friendly?”
“Only with armed strangers.”
He looked toward the leather dispatch case still strapped around his torso.
“You noticed.”
“I have eyes.”
“Government papers.”
“That's vague.”
“Intentionally.”
Clara nodded.
“Then I won't ask.”
That surprised him.
Most people asked more when told not to.
Clara did not like questions she had no right to demand answers to.
She wished men extended the same courtesy.
Elias finished the soup.
Then looked toward the oven again.
Clara sighed.
“You're behaving like a dog.”
“I haven't begged.”
“Your face is begging.”
“I have an expressive face.”
“You have one expression.”
“What is it?”
“Hungry.”
He laughed.
The timer in Clara’s head told her the pie was ready.
She opened the oven.
Heat rolled into the room.
Elias sat straighter.
Clara wrapped a cloth around both hands and lifted the pan.
The crust had browned beautifully.
Steam escaped through four small cuts in the center.
The smell intensified immediately.
Cinnamon.
Sweetness.
Pastry.
Elias stared.
“You lied.”
Clara placed it on the table.
“About?”
“No apples.”
“I said nothing of the kind.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I said who said I had any.”
“That's the same thing.”
“No.”
“It is.”
Clara leaned against the table.
“Are you always this argumentative when someone feeds you?”
“Only when she lies about pie.”
Her mouth curved.
Elias saw.
Something changed in his expression.
Not hunger.
Or not only hunger.
Clara recognized it.
She had been widowed four years, not dead.
His eyes traveled over her face slowly.
Not disrespectfully.
But not innocently either.
Clara felt heat that had nothing to do with the oven.
She folded her arms.
“Careful.”
“With?”
“That look.”
“What look?”