The clamminess of the dough was a comforting feeling against the palm of
her hands. It always had been - there was something so mind numbingly simple
and eloquent about the way flour mixed into the creamed sugar and butter. Maybe
she was the only one who ever noticed it. But as she forced her palm into the
dough, working the chocolate shavings into the mixture, she realized that it
was the first time since she'd been brought here that her heart wasn’t pounding
through her veins. Her mind wasn't racing and she didn't feel the familiar
fatigue pulling at her eyelids. For a few moments, Penelope felt happy.
But then she remembered that Harper was sitting on the other edge of the
island, stony eyes bearing into the back of her head, and an inkling of her
happiness dropped away, instantly replaced by the lingering fear that she
couldn't keep pushed out of her stomach.
"What are you looking at?" She snapped, ripping a tiny piece of
dough away and rolling it around in her hands.
"You," he said with a shrug and a raise of his eyebrow, as if
the answer had been laid out in front of her. It had been.
