Read Online Caramel Hearts by E.R. Murray - Free Book Online Page B

kitchen on fire, and Harriet’s doing her best not to interfere, but she keeps making excuses to come into the kitchen.
    I prop Recipes to Make Happiness Bloom on top of the toaster and prepare all the ingredients. The flapjack recipe promises to bring out rainbows in grey skies and, despite my great evening, I could do with some rainbows right now; I have a banging headache and I’m due at Sarah’s this afternoon, but I’m not sure whether she’ll be mad at me. Taking out the mixing bowl and wooden spoon, I already feel a little better. By the time I’m melting butter, sugar and honey together, inhaling the rich aromas, my heart feels lighter and I’m hardly thinking about Sarah at all. A twinge of guilt sneaks in as I add the porridge oats – I should at least have spoken to Sarah before I went off with Maddy – but it quickly disappears. The mixture, golden like the barley fields you see on documentaries, draws me in. No wonder Mam sounds so happy in her recipes. Baking really can make the skies blue again. By the time I add the colourful bits, I’m in a dream world. It’s like I really could be adding real pieces of rainbow.
    It’s the old mnemonic that does it. Mam taught me it in primary school – Richard of York Gave Battle in Vain – to help me remember the colours of the rainbow. It’s the first concrete sign of a mam I recognize. The mnemonic earned me first prize in a school fundraising quiz. The “colours of the rainbow” was the tiebreaker question and I won a giant box of Belgian chocolates and a ten-poundbook voucher. I used the voucher in the sales to get a book each for Mam and me. We read on the sofa, toes touching, chomping on the delicious chocolates for the whole weekend.
    â€œThings weren’t always bad,” I say aloud, to make it more real. I drop sour cherries into the mixture from a height, watching the fragments glow for an instant as they catch the sun.
    When it comes to mixing, I realize I’ve taken the dream world too far and haven’t been paying attention to the measurements. The mixture is thick and difficult to stir so I try blending an extra slab of butter before turning it out onto the greased baking tray and quickly shoving it in the cleaned-out oven. I set the alarm on my mobile for fifteen minutes and sit at the kitchen table, chin in hand.
    Time drags and I start thinking about tomorrow’s visit to Ashgrove House. I try to keep my attention on baking, but I can’t stop my mind from wandering to those echoing corridors, the bright orange walls and fake flowers, the overpowering smell of air freshener. Hatty returns to the kitchen so I snatch up the cookbook and double-check the timings, then stuff it violently into my bag. I’m not ready to share it yet, and I wish she’d just let me get on with things in peace. Settling back in my chair, I wait, arms folded. As soon as Harriet opens her mouth to say something, I jump in before she can.
    â€œBefore you start, no I haven’t set anything on fire. All right?”
    When Harriet doesn’t respond, I look up and realize she’s been crying. Her eyelids are swollen and her eyelashes look sticky. She glances at the mass of dirty pots and sighs.
    â€œJust make sure you clean that mess up.”
    I want to ask her what’s wrong, but the potential answers scare me. Instead, I say, “I will. I’m not totally useless.”
    â€œI never said you were. And don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
    I expected more lectures, perhaps some tantrums. A slanging match, at least.
    â€œWhat are you making, anyway?” Harriet sniffs, dabbing at her nose with a tissue.
    â€œFlapjacks. I thought I’d take some round to Sarah’s later.”
    Harriet nods, a distant look in her eyes that reminds me of Mam. Panic flutters in my stomach. I’ve never seen my sister like this.
    â€œThere’s some for you,