"Come on in, child," she said at the sound of my knuckles lightly thumping the smooth wall. I needn't have bothered to knock. Her head had shot up before my feet had even met the doorway. She tossed me a soft smile as soft as her honey sweet voice. Her hand stilled on her knife as she paused. Two halves of a red pepper lay on either side of the metallic steel. She had carved out the round seed and she now tucked it inside the cotton bag that hung from the drawer knob.

"I was wondering when you'd come around." Her voice wrapped around me. Every vowel stretched like a song. The velvet cadence drew me in, inviting as always. I stood in the doorway, where my body leaned against the frame. I touched the broken hinges that attached to no door.

The solid, swinging door had been taken out years ago on orders of the cook.

"Good afternoon, Cookie."

She had gripped the hilt of her knife in her sure hand and was now slicing each bell pepper half into fourths. She then gathered the thick strips and turned them until they lay horizontal in a vertical line. She loosened her grip on the knife. Gravity sunk the tip of the knife through the bell peppers. Following the movement of the knife, her hand dipped, slicing the peppers into small squares. Follow the knife. That was her secret, she had once told me.

I turned my cheek to the side to breathe in her vanilla scent as she folded her hands over mine. Using my hands, she gripped the knife. Its blade extended into the air, long and straight, as its belly hung low and curved.

Before I stepped into my bath, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the marble floors. I looked like that knife, I thought—long and extended with a curved belly. I smiled at that then glanced down to our joined hands—Cookie's and mine. I pressed myself tighter against her, swaddling myself in her scent, strength, and love, and then I closed my eyes.

She pinched my ear. "Boring you, am I?" she asked.

Head still tilted back, I smiled at Cookie. She bent down and kissed my forehead. I wrinkled my nose like I was disgusted, but I didn't move to wipe her kiss away.

"Today, you're going to learn how to cook. I was years younger than you when my mama taught me," she said, picking up a freshly washed tomato with her left hand. "Cooking isn't so hard. It just takes a lot of time. But with patience, you can make anything. You've been watching me long enough. Now, it's your time to shine."

She turned the tomato to its side. Using our hands entwined with a knife in between, we cut through the tomato. All the while, Cookie whispered instructions in my ear. Her voice deepened, like she was in a trance, and I heard a smile in her voice.

"Follow the knife, and you can do no wrong. So many people try to take lead. Don't be like them. Sit back, observe, and listen. You'll learn more. You'll stay out of trouble, too."

I looked at the six slices of red tomato lying on the cutting board like dominos then looked up. My eyebrows lifted as I met her gaze. "That sounds boring, Cookie."

Her eyes narrowed as she laid a hand on her hip. "Well, I'll tell you this, missy. No one's ever died from being boring."

That evening's lesson had been our first and our last. Later that night, Mother had rung for Cookie. I never knew what was said behind that closed door, but the next day, Cookie didn't remind me that we were supposed to make pecan pie, and I didn't let her know that I remembered.

"You missed breakfast," she said as she gathered the red bell peppers into a pile where they mixed with the minced green and yellow peppers. Her arm extended from the kitchen island. It reached up and unhooked the large pan that swung from the suspended metal rack where curved hooks hung skillets, pans, and pots. She scooped the peppers, and she transferred them inside the pan. Gripping the handle, she danced to the stove, switched it on, and set the pan down.

She spun around to a cabinet—the third one from the right—and extracted two glass spice jars. Each jar had a metal covering dotted with small holes. With a flick of her wrist, the jars upturned, and the grainy curry and salt fell like snowflakes into the pan. She was frying the bell peppers and mixing them with a wooden spoon.

"Missed my cinnamon rolls, too." She looked at me now, bringing a hand to her hip, while a foot tapped against the porcelain floor tiles. "And I bet you came here for a little bite to eat, thinking Cookie will sneak you some food, no problem."

I smiled as I ventured inside. "I would never presume, but I did hope." My bottom lip drew out in an unconscious pout. "I'm very hungry."

"Hmm." She set down her wooden spoon and walked to the microwave. "Well, you should have thought of that before skipping breakfast." Her hand went to the number pad and her finger pressed one minute. Inside, a microwave cover swirled as the countdown began. The distinct smell of cinnamon filled the room.

Her arms folded themselves beneath her chest as she surveyed me. Her lips curled. "What I should do is kick you out." The microwave dinged. She reached inside and pulled out a plate where a fat, gooey cinnamon roll sat perched in the middle. Glazed sugar drizzled around the rim of the plate. A small breath of air escaped her lips as she marveled at her creation. "I should eat this myself." She shook her head. "Wow, I am a great cook."

I took a seat on one of the island stools as she set the plate down in front of me.

"Eat this, and eat it quick. We don't want your mother hearing about this, do we?"

I looked up from my food, a smile playing at the corners of my lips. "We don't?" I pinched the cinnamon roll off my plate. "Afraid of her, are you?"

Cookie smacked my head with the rag tucked into her belt. "Not today. Not ever. I simply have many things to do today and engaging with your mother is not one of them." She raised her brows delicately as she smoothed down her apron. "The high road is not an easy road, but it is the road best taken."

A small drop of glaze dripped down to the edge of my roll. My tongue stuck out to lick it up. "How benevolent of you, Cookie." I looked at her through my eyelashes as I nibbled on my soft bun.

She snorted and shuffled to the island. "Benevolence doesn't even begin to cover it. I'm a saint." She picked up the knife and used her apron to wipe it clean. "Fifteen years I've been here. Fifteen years too long."

I took a bite of my cinnamon roll. The bread was warm, malleable, and buttery. It held up under the weight of the glaze that streaked over the bun, drizzled down the edges, and spilled into every crevice. It was an explosion of taste as the breaded base collapsed in my mouth, and I tasted the cinnamon that was saturated throughout the roll.

I let out a happy sigh. "It's good, Cookie. Really good. One of your best."

She ran the knife through her apron once more to remove any smudges and peered into the reflection. She frowned and began curling her loose hair over her ears and tucking it back into the single braid that fell past her waist.

Playing with her hair was Cookie's favorite past time. Every night, after the last remnants of dinner were mopped and washed from the kitchen, she would sit on her bed—facing the mirror—and unravel the braid, combing her fingers through her tresses as she went along. 

When her hair hung free past her shoulders, she would breathe a deep sigh and pick up her ivory comb. One hundred strokes every day without fail. She never cut her hair, only trimmed it with her face pinched and lips pursed. She looked so tortured, you'd think she was forced into it. But split ends were a greater evil than losing precious half inches so she pulled herself together every fourth month.

In that way, she reminded me of my sister. They were never more than three feet away from a mirror.

I shook my head and took another bite. "You should set up your own shop." The tip of my finger caught another dripping drop, so I stuck the finger into my mouth and sucked the glaze from my skin. "Call it Cookie's Creations."

That brought her gaze away from her reflection. "My own shop? And what, missy, would I do with my own shop?"

"Exactly what you do here, I imagine. Cook. Bake. Live." I popped the last bit of the cinnamon roll into my mouth and spoke around the food. "Without the hovering presence of my mother, I might add."

She laughed. "You and your ideas. I'm too old for that nonsense. Exploring and venturing are young people's business."

"You just turned thirty-five, Cookie. I'd hardly call that decrepit."

She snorted. "Well, just wait 'till you turn thirty-five. Let's see how you like it." She shook her head. Her eyes dropped toward the knife, and she checked her appearance. She patted her hair in place. After some minutes, she looked at me. "And where would I set up this shop, this Cookie's Creations? I don't see a future where Mr. Vernon would allow an upstart to infiltrate his monopoly."

"If my mother can't scare you, no one can."

She smiled at this and looked at me with her soft eyes. "Honey, there are worse people in this world than your mother."

I shifted in my chair, drawing my legs up and wrapping my arms around them. My head fell so that my chin rested in the gap between my knees. My eyes dropped to watch my toes wriggle about on the seat, above my forgotten slippers that lay on the floor.

"You could leave, Cookie," I said. My voice was tiny, small. It was hard to get the words out. My throat felt constricted and clogged. I cleared it, but the discomfort didn't go away. It seemed to grow. I managed to push out the words that were weighing so heavily on my heart. "You could leave...and start anew."

My eyes watched my wriggling toes because they did not dare look up. To look up meant to see the answer in her eyes, the "possibility that she would leave me" I feared would show through her soft gaze as each second dragged past, layered in a wreath of silence. I swallowed and waited. And waited some more until I was sick and tired of the sound of nothing but my bated breath.

She was drawing me out, drawing out the last question that lay at the bottom of my soul. So fierce and subtle was her quiet reserve that I was left meek and tired. My shields fell—slack and dormant—under her icy silence.

I squeezed my eyes tight, squeezing out all images, even the wriggling frenzy of my painted toes as my body stilled in wait for her reaction.

"Cookie..." I said, "...why don't you leave the city, cross the wall, never come back." And take me with you. That wasn't said. It was barely even thought.

Her answer was sharp and swift, like I knew it would be. A long finger tilted my head up. My eyes fluttered open. I saw Cookie with her warm, brown skin and soft eyes. And then I heard her honey sweet voice.

"What do you know about the wall, Celeste?"

The soft cadence of her voice blew past her lips like a sweet lullaby. It usually coaxes the soul like a song, and it draws out the truth like an expert hypnosis.

"Nothing..." I lied. "I just thought—"

"Nothing," was her soft finish. "You thought nothing." Her eyebrows drew together even as she said the words. Her lips pursed like she didn't believe me, and her eyes searched mine as if to find the start of the lie and the beginning of the truth.

My mouth snapped shut. No matter how sweet her song was, she wouldn't be able to pry the truth out of me. Nothing, she had said, so nothing it would have to be. This was the one secret I could not share.

She frowned, and my heart clenched. I thought she'd divined my thoughts.

Then, it cleared as a smile burst forth. She tapped my chin and kissed my forehead.

"Leave the adventures to your novels. Boring will keep you safe."

She patted my head again and turned toward the stove. As she hummed a song, she stirred and added shrimp to her curried bell peppers.

I watched her. As I watched her, I saw glimpses of my sister.