As she stood at the stove, whisking honey into her morning tea, the crash sounded from behind her. There was that crystalline violence when the glass met the stone floor that used to make her duck for cover, her heart racing and her muscles clenched for whatever was coming next.
Yet she remained motionless.
While her breathing remained constant, Lila kept stirring the cup and watched the golden streams of honey swirl through it. She had begun cultivating chamomile and lavender in the little garden behind the house, and the aroma of these herbs wafted up in the delicate wisps of steam that rose from the cup. She could make out Regan's voice outside, as he was chatting with Giuseppe about the week's weather predictions, as the early light poured through the kitchen window and illuminated
