I let my truck idle in front of my house and contemplate the light that spills from the kitchen windows. When I finally step onto the walk, a hint of spice and molasses fills the night. I stand there, clutching Malcolm’s samovar to my chest, the metal a dull cold beneath my fingertips and against my heart, trying to fathom what is going on in my home.
There’s one way to find out. I round the house and enter from the back. The moment I open the door, the kitchen wraps me in warmth and spice—nutmeg and clove, and the tang of ginger. Sadie is standing at the oven. She’s wearing a pair of mitts I’m certain I don’t own. Nigel is slipping cookies from a sheet to a cooling rack. Belinda is pouring a mug of something that she hands to me.
“Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just sit down and breathe for a
