Clonely You (Sunrise Cantina #2)

Chapter 13

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

AITHAR

I have no idea what I’m doing, and the little pained sounds that Michaela makes as I work tell me that I’m not doing things just as she likes. My poor heart loves to have control of a situation, and every time I slop a bit of milk from the hose, or every time some of the butter doesn’t make it out of the churn and lands on the floor, she moans as if wounded.

Each time she makes a sound, I get a little messier. It’s not about making butter right. It’s about being terrible at this and showing her that the world doesn’t end if something goes wrong.

I finish the first batch quicker than we both expect. I’m strong and I want to show off for my female, so I crank the linked-churns speedily and give her enthusiastic smiles as I do. We eye the finished product, and Michaela is unhappy with it. “The texture is all wrong,” she tells me, and we both examine the clumps. “It’s not as thick as it should be. Maybe churn slower this time?”

We put aside the butter from the first batch that is now “my” butter and begin the process again. The cream is separated from the milk, and the milk is bottled as something called “skimmed milk.” We take the cream and put that in the churns, and I run the crank, agitating the row of butter-making churns until Michaela is happy with the product. As I go slower this time, it leaves us more time to talk. She tells me what it was like when she first arrived here on Risda, and I want to ask her a thousand questions. I could listen to her talk forever. She asks me to volunteer information, too, so I tell her about my first memories as a slave working comms on a coal-mining station in a deep space system. Neither of us have particularly good memories of these times, but sharing them makes them seem less ugly. They’re just part of our past.

Once the second batch is churned, we rinse it clean of the leftover liquid (she calls it “buttermilk,” I call it disgusting) and salt the large mass of butter and press it into loaf-shaped molds. From there, it goes into a refrigerated unit, where it will be popped out of its mold and wrapped in plas, a label slapped onto the center and brought to the store in Port.

“What do you do with the extra milk?” I ask her. I know the skimmed milk is bottled and sold at the store. “The butters milk? The smelly one?”

Michaela shrugs, leaning over and watching as I push the cleaned and salted butter into molds. “I haven’t figured that out yet. No one buys buttermilk because it’s got a sour taste and it’s not popular. I bottled it to sell once and all the bottles came back full. It seems like a waste to throw it out, so I’m still trying to figure out how to proceed. I know people use it back on Earth, but I can’t remember for what and I can’t look it up, of course.”

“Can you feed it to the cows?”

She makes a face. “Don’t you think that would be weird?”

“But you eat it.”

“Drink it. But yes. Milk is great, and butter is even better.” I must show my feelings on my face because a smile curves her lips. “Don’t tell me. You’ve never had butter?”

I shudder. “Lactation by-product from a beast? Hideous.”

A laugh escapes her. Michaela’s face is incredulous, and the more she looks at me, the more she keeps laughing. “But you eat eggs!” she protests.

“Correction. You eat eggs. I prepare them for you.”

That makes her laugh even harder. Her giggles, sweet and delightful, fill the air. “You mean to tell me…” she manages between gasps, “that you find all of this…repulsive?”

“All of it,” I agree solemnly. “Even the smell.”

Peals of laughter shake her, and she grips her sides, bent over with sheer delight. I love that I’ve made her laugh, even if it’s on something as small and ridiculous as this. “Well then,” I say, “Once all of this is in the molds, what next?”

“We clean up.” When I give her a suspicious look, she continues. “No, seriously. If we don’t clean up in the barn, all the spilled milk is going to leave a horrible smell that is impossible to get rid of. We need to hose the area off.”

“You mean I will need to do so.”

“Fine, fine, you do it. I’m not going to fight you over that.” She rolls her eyes, but her smile lingers. “By all means, do all the hard work.”

She is fighting me less and less on things, and her mood is good. I take these both as excellent signs and let her instruct me on how to clean the barn. We get out a hose with a sprayer attached and rinse off all the metal and the flooring, spray soap, and do it all again. Michaela is meticulous in the cleanliness of her work area, and I spend the next two hours scrubbing equipment to her cleanliness standards.

“I think it takes longer to clean the equipment than it does to make the butter,” I point out when I shake the last of the water from my hands. My fingertips are shriveled and everything smells heavily of soap.

“It’s never just about the butter,” she agrees, and her mood is practically cheerful. “Now, let’s check on that sick cow before we head in.”

It’s another hour before we make it back to the house. The one cow is indeed sick, a vast quantity of mucus running from its mouth and nose. I’m horrified at the sight, but I’ve also never been around animals much. The thing makes a mess in the barn, from its nose to the fact that it seems to poop even as it stands around, chewing on hay. She runs medical checks on it while her datapad makes noises and confirms that the cow has, in fact, eaten something bad for it. Medication is administered, and she wipes the cow down gently, whispering sweet words to it to calm it. Even though I’ve vowed to handle all the work today, I let her take care of this part. She knows how to treat the creature, and I’ve never even been this close to one before. It seems wise to let her help the sick creature so I don’t make it worse.

Once she’s satisfied it’s taken care of, we head back to her house. Sure enough, most of the day is gone, and I can see how she finds it difficult to go into town. She makes a lot of work for herself, but it is because she cares about giving her customers the best butter she can. She cares about taking care of her cattle.

I could help her with her dairy farm, I muse. With two of us working together, she would get done in half the time. She would not be as stressed, or as lonely. Granted, she would not be in control, but I think perhaps this much control is not a good thing.

I loop my arm around her shoulders as we head in. “We made a great deal of butter today.”

She eyes me speculatively. “We did, though half of it doesn’t have the right texture and I can’t sell it.”

“My half. You sold it to me. And look at what happened.”

Michaela quirks a brow. “What happened? Nothing happened.”

“Precisely. Nothing happened. The barn did not collapse. The butter was not destroyed. No arms fell off. Nothing happened. You gave up control to me and it was fine.”

The look she gives me is suspicious. “I…guess. Still, half the butter?—”

“—Was bought by me. I would not make that mistake again. It is fine. ” I want to shower her with kisses to show her how proud I am that she has allowed me to assist this much. That she has not fought or refused to play along. She has been reluctant, but what person would not be? She has trusted me, and in return, I have helped her. “Will you let me assist you in the future if you run behind or feel overwhelmed?”

“Maybe…?” She pokes me in the side. “Don’t press your luck. I still have a filthy kitchen to go back to. Remember that?”

Chuckling, I hug her shoulders. “Oh, I remember. We will wash up, and once we are done showering, we will go into town for a meal. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like you’ve already decided.” Michaela tries to keep a stern face and breaks, a smile curving her lips. “I’m not sure what to make of this bossy side of you.”

Panic flares inside me, but I hide it as best I can. What if she doesn’t want me to challenge her? I have not until this point. “You like it as much as my other side, I hope?”

“I do.” She laughs again, nudging me in the side.

Utter relief washes through my body. Thank kef. “Shall we shower together, my glorious dairymaid?”

“If we do, we’re never getting to town for a meal.”

I am all right with that…but she needs to eat, and I did promise her a meal.

I’m able to drag Michaela away from the messy house despite her protests to clean beforehand. This is all part of the plan. We head into town after showering, and I insist on driving. We take my air-sled, and she jokes about how she’s turning into a lady of leisure, but I don’t mind that. She’s no longer petrified at the thought of ceding some control to me. It’s progress for sure, and I’m pleased with how the day is going.

There’s no parking by the cantina, the street full with other parked rickety-looking air-sleds from colonists. Our cantina—Sunrise Cantina—isn’t open yet, so I take Michaela’s hand and we walk in the direction of the other cantina. Even from down the street, I can see it’s crowded. People are waiting at the door for their turn to order, and more women walk up as we watch.

“When did Port get so busy?” Michaela wonders.

Even as we pause, another air-sled flies overhead. “Lord va’Rin has been busy rescuing as many humans as he can,” I point out. “And word has spread. It is a good thing, I think.”

“Well, it’s definitely good for business.” Her tone is brisk, and I wonder if she is thinking about her missing sister, who has yet to be rescued.

I touch her shoulder gently and she moves closer to me, as if seeking comfort. “Are you all right?”

“I will be.” She manages a tight smile and crosses her arms over her chest, a sure sign that she’s feeling vulnerable. Then she nudges her chin toward the stall parked in front of town hall. “What’s that?”

“Simone’s bakery cart. Have you not met her?”

“There’s someone running a bakery shop here?” Michaela is surprised. “I didn’t know.”

I turn in the direction of the cart and steer my female in that direction. “Yes. She sells human foods, I believe. Would you like some?”

She makes an affirmative noise and we head for the cart. Simone’s cart is familiar to me—she has it rigged with multiple trays with plas shields to protect the food, and a large pop-up awning in festive pink and green stripes. Simone stands underneath the awning, a pair of tongs in her hand and an apron covering her clothing. Even before we approach, I notice two things. One is that there is a woman customer standing in front of the cart, arguing with Simone. The other is that the cart is empty.

It takes me another moment before I realize that the woman arguing with Simone is Ruth-Ann. Because of course it is. “Oh no.”

“What is it?” Michaela asks, just as Ruth-Ann turns and notices us.

Ruth-Ann brightens and gestures us over. “Good, you’re here. We need a second opinion. What do you call the breakfast roll with the bit of meat or sausage in the middle?”

Behind Ruth-Ann’s back, Simone makes a face.

I have no idea what they are talking about, but Michaela pauses. “You mean pigs in a blanket?”

Ruth-Ann presses on. “Have you heard them called anything else?”

“Kolache?”

“Ha!” Simone blurts out.

Ruth-Ann’s face falls. “But they’re not kolaches. Kolaches are a sweet pastry.”

Michaela shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve heard them called pigs in a blanket most of my life but my dad always called them kolaches.”

“But that’s wrong .” Ruth-Ann looks utterly disgruntled.

“Seems like you don’t know everything there is to know about baking after all,” Simone teases from behind Ruth-Ann. She beams at us. “We were having a friendly argument over what to call them. I’m glad I was right.”

“Do you have pigs in a blanket?” Michaela asks, moving forward to peer at all the trays in Simone’s cart.

“Normally I have kolaches,” she emphasizes, a triumphant look on her face as she eyes Ruth-Ann. “But they’re not quite pig nor are they in a blanket. I haven’t perfected a pancake yet. The flour here doesn’t play nice.” She gestures with her tongs at her empty trays. “And I actually just sold the last box of cookies and was packing up.”

“You have cookies?” Michaela’s expression is delighted.

“I do,” Simone says proudly. “I also have hand pies and a few other things on a daily basis.”

Ruth-Ann mumbles something.

“What was that?” Simone asks, her tone overly sweet. “I know you didn’t just criticize my baking.”

Ruth-Ann leans over the cart. “Your pie crusts are all wrong,” she yells out. “And your cookies are flat.”

“But they still sell out,” Simone tells her. “You’re just a hater.” She ignores Ruth-Ann and focuses on Michaela. “She just likes to come here every day to tell me everything I’m doing wrong. I think it’s her way of flirting.”

The noise Ruth-Ann makes is one I’ve never heard her make before. It’s strangled and frustrated, and I watch as she turns and storms away, her dark hair fluttering.

Michaela glances at me, her brows up, and I shrug. I don’t know if it was flirting or not. I do know that Simone is right and Ruth-Ann is constantly here at Simone’s cart to bother her.

Simone just waves her tongs. “Don’t worry about her. She’ll be back. She’s always back. Now, what can I help you two with? I can take an order for tomorrow if you like.”

Michaela turns back to her. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d have a use for buttermilk.”

Buttermilk? That disgusting juice that comes off the butter when it’s made? I try to hide my revolted expression. Simone is less horrified than I am. Her face lights up. “Like for pancakes?”

“Pancakes,” Michaela agrees. “Or for bread. I’m not a baker, but I know it’s popular in a lot of recipes. I just remembered that buttermilk pancakes are a thing.”

A crafty look steals over Simone’s face. “How much?”

“I’ll bring you a bottle tomorrow when I come to pick up a box of cookies and we’ll discuss. Deal?”

“I could hug you,” Simone says triumphantly. “Wait until Ruth-Ann hears about this.”

The women talk for a few minutes while I watch the line at the cantina. When it grows short, I put my hand at the small of Michaela’s back. “Shall we go eat? I think the crowd is thinning out.”

“Yes!” She turns to me, eyes bright. “I’m starving.”

And in a good mood, which I love to see.

We say goodbye to Simone, and Michaela promises to return in the morning with buttermilk for her. As we leave, Michaela leans closer to me. “I think Ruth-Ann isn’t the only one flirting.”

I’m shocked. “You think they are flirting?”

“In the ‘pull on your pigtails’ way, yes.”

I lean in close and whisper. “I have no idea what that means.”

She chuckles. “I’ll tell you later. What do you recommend we get here? I’m starving.”

We get into the cantina, and the smell of grease and ooli brew hits my senses. I breathe through my mouth, because the mingling of those two scents is not my favorite. I eye the crowd and what they’re eating. There’s a lot of food left on plates, and no one looks happy with their order. “Perhaps fried leaves? Those are difficult to get wrong.”

“Fried leaves?” She looks at me in surprise. “You guys fry leaves?”

“A certain kind of leaf. It’s pretty tasty with salt. I’ll order.” I want to pull her close, but it’s too crowded in here to do more than stand awkwardly near one another. The tables are clustered tight and the bar is packed. Most of the crowd in here look as if they’re the dockworkers at the spaceport, and only a few humans are lingering over their food. I note that a custodian is standing at the back, keeping things quiet. Our cantina will be better than this, I think. It will be a place humans can cluster, and not feel as if they are on the outskirts even on their own planet.

Well…I suppose it is Lord va’Rin’s planet but the humans outnumber him.

Michaela grabs a table while I put in the order and get food and drinks. I get two different kinds of mild beers, just in case she doesn’t like hers, she can drink mine. I also get a basket of fried leaves and a pot of plain noodles and return to Michaela’s side.

Her expression is cheerful and open as I set the food down, and she beams at me. “Going out was a good call. Maybe I do spend too much time alone on my farm. Just seeing the bakery stall gave me an idea of what to do with buttermilk. Perhaps I’ve been living in an isolated bubble, like you said.”

I love that she’s enjoying herself. I love that when I put my hand on the table, she automatically twines her fingers with mine. “I am glad we went out, too. Just think of how much time you are wasting at home, cleaning your dishes.”

She laughs and smacks my hand. “You monster! I forgot about the dishes!”

“As you should have.” I reach for her again and play with her fingertips. “One should not be so focused on work that you forget the pleasures to be had in life.”

“I’m glad I met you so you could remind me,” she teases, her expression soft.

My heart aches with joy at the sight of her lovely smile. “I am glad we met, too.”

We gaze into each other’s eyes for a long moment, neither of us saying anything. Love me , I mentally whisper. Be happy with me. I will adore you for all time if you’ll let me. Just keep your hand in mine and let me be your partner.

She rubs her thumb against my hand, and pulls away, reaching for one of the fried leaves. “You like these?”

“They’re decent. Some cantina food isn’t worth eating, but it’s hard to mess up fried leaves, which is why most places have them.” I’m more interested in the fact that she seems as if she’s retreating from our casual intimacy. Is it because she truly is that hungry for fried leaves…or is it that she worries she’s going to lose control again?

I suspect it’s the latter…which will make later tonight very, very interesting.