mouth fills with saliva to wash away the salty taste. “Who eats porridge this salty?”
Sidestepping, I dip the spoon into the next bowl, it glistens with honey, but nowhere near as much as the first. Lifting the spoon to my lips I swallow the porridge.
“Oh my God,” I moan.
The taste of sweet honey, a hint of salt and the smooth texture of the porridge hits all the right spots. I could eat it all but somewhere in the back of my mind a little voice is telling me that I’m overstepping the mark big time. I mean who in their right mind would enter a house that doesn’t belong to them and then proceed to eat food that’s clearly been left out for the occupants to return to. Yeah, that would be me, clearly.
Quickly covering up the bowls and placing the spoon back on the counter, I back away from the kitchen island and shift from foot to foot in the middle of the room wondering what I should do now.
Chapter Three
Chewing on my nail, I decide to check out the rest of the house. I’ve come this far. I may as well go all out and deal with the consequences should the brothers return whilst I’m poking around their home. A part of me wonders why I don’t feel worried about that. I should, but I don’t. This only confirms what I’m beginning to feel. I must know these men.
Pushing through a door off the kitchen, I walk down a hallway that has a set of stairs to the right, two doors to the left and one leading out to the back porch. Trying the first door, I find it locked and a strange sense of relief settles over me. Probably because I can’t get myself into more trouble by entering a room that I have no business going into. Despite that, I still try the next door. It opens up into a snug with another, smaller, inglenook fireplace and three armchairs set around it in a semicircle. The room has a run of shelves on one side of the fireplace filled with leather bound books, and on the other is a table covered in whittling tools and miniature figurines. Like their larger counterparts, they appear to be incredibly detailed and lifelike despite their size. Hovering in the doorway I debate whether I should enter. Then again, I’ve already overstepped the mark so why not go all the way? That’s what I tell myself as I step into the room for no other reason than to be nosy. Heading over to the table with all the miniature figurines stacked upon it, I pick one up. It’s not complete yet, the bottom half has been whittled out of a soft piece of wood and reveals a pair of slim legs, and bare feet that look feminine in shape. The pad of my thumb rubs over the smooth wood and the sensation makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Dropping the figurine, I back away from the table and the chisels, gouges, and chip carving knives. I stare at the little blocks of white pine and question how the hell I know what type of wood it is, let alone what the tools are named.
My throat constricts, and my skin prickles. These tools, they’re familiar.
Stumbling backwards, my arse hits the armrest of one of the chairs, and I fall into the seat sideways, my legs dangling over the armrest. The seat itself is a solid hard foam and the leather a deep brown. Twisting my legs around, I shuffle my arse, testing it out, but it’s way too hard. Glancing over to the chair next to the one I’m sitting on; I have the sudden inexplicable urge to test that one out too.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I ask myself.
This isn’t normal behaviour. Then again, I’ve no idea what normal means to me given I don’t know who the hell I am. Forcing myself upright, I stride out of the room before I can indulge in this weird behaviour and try out the other two seats.
A normal person who might find themselves in a situation like this would go to the police station or the hospital, and not follow some urge to seek out the people who own this goddamn house. I must have really hit my head hard because that’s the most likely cause of memory loss, right? A bump to the head.
My fingers