Onions frying in butter smelled of home and safety and warmth, but for once Anna wasn’t hungry. Her fingers loosened around the mug she held, but it didn’t fall into her lap, spilling the dregs of her drink. Other hands lifted it from her. Robin. Anna hadn’t the energy to open her eyes, but she could smell the biotech. Like onions and butter, Robin smelled of life and rich earth, of young plants pushing up after the rain, meadow grass when it’s crushed underfoot.Soft hands touched her face, brushed the lank hair from her forehead.Gray,Anna remembered: red and gray, salt and cinnamon. Robin stroked her cheek and Anna felt the silky whisk of her ancient orange tiger cat Piedmont’s tail, followed by the rasp of his tongue, a tongue designed to abrade flesh from bone.Robin,she reminded herself,calluses, hardworking hands.“I am so sorry,” Robin whispered. A kiss or a tear settled on Anna’s cheekbone.“De nada.”Anna’s lips moved, but if they made a sound she was asleep before she heard it.ANNA SHOULD HAVE slept like the dead — or the very nearly dead — but she was troubled by dreams and the revenge of muscles she’d abused.
