LUCY
My heart is hammering against my ribs as I cross back into the tea room. I march over to one of the long, jewel-toned sofas, throwing myself into the cushions harder than necessary. I cross my legs, smooth down the fabric of my casual trousers with two sharp, unnecessary strokes, and wait.
My ears, sharper now than they have ever been, easily pick up the soft, hesitant shuffle of feet approaching from the study corridor long before my mother's distinct, spicy scent of nutmeg and wild amber reaches my nostrils, curling low and familiar and utterly unwelcome.
I feel a defensive urge to clamp my thighs together, to burrow into myself for protection against the onslaught of their presence—but I forcibly release the tension, lengthening my spine one vertebra at a time until I sit like something carved rather than something breakable.
