Page 92 of The Stranger

“Come on, let me flex my cooking chops.”

“You are kidding, right?” I stare at the cornucopia of breakfasts that even includes a few miniature choux pastry Horns of Plenty filled with shiny berries and cream, then dusted with sugar. “I’ve put on three kilos just looking at this lot.”

“I never kid about food, Rose. And breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

I grab a glass. “No additional food required but thank you for your kind offer.”

She sighs in reply.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what happens to all this afterwards?” Because no two mornings seem to contain the same offerings.

“We’re a highly waste-conscious operation, Rose. Llama’s, horses, and other four-legged folk,” she says, pointing vaguely in the direction of the fruit. “And hungry workers are always appreciative of a lil’ sweet treat for the almuerzo. Mid-morning break,” she adds in explanation as she points at the pastries.

“F—fudge.” The sunshiny liquid spills from the jug as she appears in front of me.

“Spill the tea,” she invites, all amused, sparkling eyes. “And not the juice.” She grabs a bunch of napkins, passing them over to me as she adds, “Was it Alejandro?”

“Was what Alejandro?” I continue to mop, all calm nonchalance. I hope.

“Who kept you from sleeping,” she says, barely moving her lips.

“Why would he?” I pull a confused face as I stare into my juice as though I can see something floating in it because I can literally feel her gaze trailing over me. Like ants over spilled sugar. “I couldn’t sleep and found myself in the kitchen at stupid o’clock, craving chocolate cake. Then all that sugar must’ve kept me from sleeping,” I add as I cup my hand to my neck and lean my elbow on the marble countertop, all je suis fatigué.

“It wasn’t post-make-out munchies.”

I pull another face: dunno what you’re talking about.

“Then I guess you must’ve… bruised yourself shaving,” she says as her eyes dip to my neck anyway.

“Women don’t shave,” Felix mutters without looking up from his plate.

“Shows what you know,” Zoe singsongs back.

“I mean women don’t shave their-their faces.” His belligerent tone turns slightly panicked as his gaze meets mine, and his skin cheeks flush red before he quickly looks away. “I know they shave other places,” he mutters just loud enough to hear.

Zoe’s brows lift to her hairline.

I don’t have the mental fortitude to deal with this. One crisis at a time, people, please!

“Ladies don’t shave their faces, but they can do many things men cannot,” Sylvie says out of nowhere.

“Bof!” Felix scoffs, the French equivalent of meh.

“They can brush your hair and put it in braids. And they know if you are sick just by touching your head.”

“Papa knows when we are sick,” Felix interjects. “And he asks Zoe to make soup.”

“Yes, but he needs a doctor to tell him we are sick before he asks Zoe to make the soup. But now we don’t need the doctor because we have Primrose.”

“Sweetie, I’m not going to be⁠—”

Zoe catches my eye as she dramatically throws the kitchen towel over her shoulder. With a meaningful look, she chucks it across the island at me. I mirror the action; as far as camouflage goes, it’ll have to do. I direct my attention Sylvie’s way again.

“A doctor and a woman,” she hurls at her brother as though playing her trump card. “Aussi—I mean, also—women can hear you whisper from a room away!”

“That is stupid,” Felix mutters.

“You didn’t say that when Emmy heard you swearing at your stupide game all the way from my bedroom!” Her head swings my way as though struck by a thought. “Women can also have babies, Primrose, yes? Men can’t do that.”