A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,40
a mezzanine where people can mingle, but thick support pillars obstruct most of the stage.
I can’t find guava paste in Winchester, but I find Orion’s sister ten seconds after I weave through the mezzanine crowd. Flora’s flat against the back wall, a guy wearing a beanie and a flannel shirt hovering in front of her. I send a quick text while GLYTTR jams below. Orion’s review of the band was spot-on; their sound is the bad kind of strange.
Orion appears, stepping around me and calling out to Flora. Her face shifts from dream to nightmare at the sight of her brother. “You didn’t answer your phone,” he says. No Pink or other endearing nicknames tonight.
“It’s loud up here,” she retorts.
Orion plants himself strong, crossing his arms. “Your friends are waiting by the booth to leave. With you.”
The boy pulls back, but only a step. “I’ll see Flora home. Safe and sound.”
“Another time, William,” Orion says.
Flora huffs, checking her watch. “But we were going to—”
“Another time, then. You’re with Gordon and your friends tonight. And they’re heading out for some grub.”
Surrendering, William holds up both palms at Orion. He turns dark, narrowed eyes on Flora. “Ring when you can.”
He gets Flora’s lone smile before she whisks past us without another word. William lifts his chin at Orion before heading back to the mezzanine rail.
“So,” I say as we descend. “You two have met.”
“That’s Will. Remember I said one of Roth Evan’s tech guys has been sniffing around Flora?”
Instinctively, I glance back up. “That didn’t look good. Definite, um, sniffing.”
He guides me outside. “It could look even worse. If Will’s around, chances are the rest of Roth’s posse is or was here as well.”
“So Jason Briggs wasn’t the only one here to check up on Goldline.”
We cross to the lot, weaving through double-parked cars. “Exactly. Jules debuted three new songs tonight, including the one about trains you liked.” He motions toward a silver Land Rover. “There. That’s Roth’s. I knew it. They didn’t come all the way from London tonight to watch GLYTTR. A hundred great female artists in London, but Roth wants Jules and her particular sound, and I can’t really blame him. But he won’t quit.” Orion stops cold about five feet from his motorcycle, exhaling. His sourness loosens into a half smile. “After Flora and all that, I could use a walk. There’s a cool spot nearby that’s already on your Winchester to-do list. You game, or you have to get up early?”
I already told Orion about my Owl and Crow baking gig. But I also front-loaded all of today’s plus Sunday’s baking this morning (chocolate scones, morning buns, Abuela’s pound cake, and sugar cookies), the only habit of Polly’s I’m keeping. “Sleeping in tomorrow, so I’m good. And there’s a to-do list?”
“I’d be a poor excuse for a tour guide without one.”
Orion’s sweater keeps me the perfect amount of warm as we stroll into the little section of town near the Gate. The River Itchen cuts through the city center at this spot. We pass over ancient bridges, the water rushing beneath us. And Orion’s a history book.
“This old mill has been here since 1086. It was used for laundry during World War I.
“Our River Itchen is twenty-eight miles long.
“Winchester has been inhabited since prehistoric times, but a fire destroyed much of our city in 1104. The archbishop had much of it rebuilt.”
I listen contentedly but the scenery and streets begin to look familiar. Too familiar. I dredge up a little history of my own. “Wait. If The Broadway’s right there, then we could have ridden straight up here on St. Cross Road in minutes. But we took this super-long rural route around the edge of town and came in the back way?”
He rises up and down on his weathered boots. “And?”
“And? And Remy said you can use your dad’s car.”
“I often do.” His stomach growls and we both huff out a laugh. “Snacks, then? We can pop into Tesco. My supper earlier was kind of… not.”
We head toward the supermarket down the block. “Are you trying to distract me from your motorcycle shadiness by telling an obsessive cook you’re eating like crap?”
“Only stating facts. I just rummaged up an apple and a cheese sandwich.”
It works. “Pitiful. Now that the Crow kitchen is mine, I’m going to start making all the Cuban food I can with English ingredients.” My voice thins. “I miss it.”
“I imagine you do. There are a couple of places in London, but I don’t