‘Exactly.’
Kit shakes her head, and in an alarmingly accurate impression of her mother, she says ‘“You know, Christopher, the village would never recover from a scandal of underfed reindeer.”’
‘“Katharine, Oxlea would forever be synonymous with hungry ungulates!”’ Christopher replies in the same perfect mimic, and the pair of them fall about laughing. It’s a perfect sibling moment. Haf hasn’t seen them this relaxed with each other since they got here, and it kind of warms her heart.
‘Don’t you pair get cheeky now,’ says Esther, startling Haf as she materialises behind them.
Sensing that if he doesn’t leave now, he will be assigned extra tasks, Christopher rushes out the door without another word.
‘I have a task specifically set aside for you,’ she says, turning to Kit.
‘For me?’ asks Kit, pulling herself up to her feet. ‘Oh no, what is it?’
‘I need you to do the gingerbread house for the raffle.’ Without another word, Esther turns and walks back to the dining room, leaving behind a very incredulous-looking Kit.
‘Sorry, you want me tomakea gingerbread house?’ she asks, scrambling to her feet and leaning against the banister. ‘One that’s good enough for someone to win as a prize?’
‘Yes, dear. That’s what I said.’
‘I have absolutely no idea how to do that.’
‘Christopher made the dough last night, so all you have to do is assemble and decorate it. You’re a clever girl, I’m sure you can work it out, and frankly there’s no one else to do it.’
‘No one is going to want a gingerbread house constructed by me. This is mad. Just wait for him to get home!’
‘Katharine,’ Esther says, turning to give her a serious and withering look. ‘There is not enough time. Christopher is busy, and after all, you are an architect. We paid for you to go to one of the best architectural schools in the country. You work in one of the most renowned firms in the city. Surely, you can use your prodigious skills to build a simple house?’
It’s such a slam dunk that it almost takes Haf’s breath away. Kit, who clearly knows she’s lost, still protests limply. ‘Sure, but not out of biscuit, Esther,’ she whines in the teenage cadence that returns once you’ve been under your parents’ roof for a few hours.
‘Don’t “Esther” me. It’s decided.’ And in a movement designed to part crowds and shoo dogs, Esther walks towards them clapping her hands twice in quick succession. Esther ploughs into the kitchen, beckoning for them to follow with a wave of her hand without ever turning to check they’re coming. It’s obvious that they just would.
On the kitchen island are a couple of mounds of ginger-brown dough wrapped in cling film, plus several open cookbooks turned to pages with pictures of gingerbread houses, annotated with neatly written suggestions on Post-it notes.
‘Mum, seriously. I’m tired. I need to have a rest if I’m going to be able to help later, and I haven’t even eaten yet.’
Esther softens, placing a hand on Kit’s cheek, her eyes searching Kit’s face as if trying to locate the source of pain and eliminate it with a classic Esther Calloway stare.
‘I can help,’ pipes up Haf before she can even think about it.
Both Calloway women turn towards her, and it’s eerie how similar their bullshit-searching look is.
‘Have you ever made a gingerbread house before?’ asks Kit.
‘Not even once. I’m not even a very good baker. I’ve burned butterfly cakes before, ha ha... But two heads are better than one, right?’
‘Good,’ says Esther curtly, turning back down the hall. ‘There are some croissants in the oven.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Idon’t think you really know what you’ve volunteered for.’ Kit laughs ruefully as she flicks on the kettle like you might flick a really horrible bug.
‘You sure you’re up to this?’ Haf asks gently, meaning both in terms of fatigue and the reality of working with Haf alone in a kitchen. Of course, that’s only if she’s feeling the tension between them as acutely as Haf is. Or maybe that’s all in Haf’s head.
‘I’ll be all right,’ Kit says, taking two cups from the cupboard. ‘Caffeine and painkillers will power me through. Plus, I’ll delegate so you can do all the hard bits.’
‘You heard me say I burn butterfly cakes, right?’
One of the recipes has been earmarked with a Post-it, notes scribbled in the corner. It seems to correspond to the dough in front of her.
