The very moment my eyes open, I remain completely still. My fingers twitch, my throat swallows, and I soon realize that nothing happened last night. For some reason, it feels too good to be true. In just over four hours, I'll be giving my speech, and no one has tried to sabotage me. No one broke into my room and knocked me over the head and dropped me in the middle of the woods. No one drugged me and tied me up in the basement of the hotel. And thank the goddess above that I'm not dead. "Maybe Baby?" I call softly then glance under the sheets in search of blood, but there's none of that either. My unease sits on my shoulder as I work through my morning routine, kicking its feet into my chest and grabbing at my hair. I stand in front of the mirror and brush my teeth, but my eyes drif

The sweet smell of cooking blackberries wafts in my face as I stir the fruit over the stove to make jam. Helena places the proofed dough loaf in the oven, and we function seamlessly, chatting through our work. "Do you think they will like jam? I hope they aren't picky." "Children are picky, but they will grow out of it. You know, my daughter was a very picky eater at first, so I would eat the food she feared and act as if it was the most wondrous tasting thing. She would see my reaction and immediately want to taste it. Most of the time, she would act the same way—smiling and saying yum-my. She was a precious little thing." "I can't wait," I say. Helena comes to my side. "Here, dear. Let me take over. Sit down for a bit, won't you?"