Read Online Hidden in Sight by Julie E. Czerneda - Free Book Online Page B

reason to make this particular meal. Making sure the top of the bag of chips was sealed, I put it on the floor, gathered myself, then leaped as high as I could before landing with both feet on the bag. It made a most pleasing sound.
    I sprinkled some now-flattened chips on the noodles and cheese, then critically examined the result. It didn’t look quite right. In fact, the bits of green between the yellow-orange looked more nauseating than food probably should. I poured chips over the dish until all the offending cheese was covered.
    Into the oven. Which I planned to watch very carefully indeed.
    I dropped into the nearest chair, postponing the need to deal with the devastation around me for a moment. Cleaning the kitchen was going to take more energy than cooking, and I’d have to be done before Paul arrived home. Done, and with the revolting dish on the table. I shrugged off the winter coat and sagged a little more.
    Would it work? I’d watched Paul make this before. More to the point, I’d seen when he made this. Humans had a term for it: comfort food. Paul’s was this—he called it Auntie Ruth’s Quick Macaroni, and claimed a distant cousin named Susan had added chips to the treasured recipe.
    I didn’t consider the concoction remotely edible, regardless of how many talented Ragems had contributed to its creation. Yet I’d seen how any tension eased from my Human’s face and shoulders when he pulled it from the oven, how his eyes crinkled at the corners as if he was holding in a laugh. He’d offer me a share, almost apologetically, then be quite visibly pleased when I refused.
    I nibbled on a fingernail—a habit appropriate to my birth-form and less so to this one—and pondered being Human. This reaction to a particular meal was not something I understood. As Ersh would doubtless remind me, I was probably too young.
    Whether I understood it or not, I was counting on it. Paul was web-kin and friend. He needed unbending. And, I sighed to myself, it went a little distance toward an apology for making him lie—again—for me.
    Keeping an eye on the seemingly cooperative oven, I went in search of a mop.
    My offering went well, though Paul insisted we retrieve the pot. I’d hoped he’d let it sit outside until the next sandstorm, which would either scour it clean or remove it altogether, but had to concede his point. It wasn’t nice to add flying kitchenware to the navigation hazards facing our visitors. Minas XII was challenging enough for those who dared her skies without the risk of dead noodles soaring through the clouds.
    â€œSo, Old Blob,” Paul said peacefully, leaning in the doorway to watch me chip away at the mess. “Any problems arranging our passage to Picco’s Moon?”
    â€œNone,” I said, grunting as I worked.
    â€œAh,” he said. “You called Joel.” I swiveled my head so I could glance over my shoulder at him, amazed.
    Then I lowered my ears. “Bah. You’ve been eavesdropping.” The Human had become quite adept at avoiding observation; I’d long suspected that sort of expertise went both ways. He certainly knew whenever I’d had a misadventure and thus had to courier myself home in a box, no matter how circumspect I’d been. Not that those incidents were as frequent lately, I told myself, having learned the hard way to arrange a source of extra mass near me at all times. Our clients assumed the multitude of potted plants in my office meant I’d prefer those as holiday gifts. Fudge. I really preferred fudge.
    Paul’s laugh rumbled in his chest. He came away from the door to join me at the sink. “Here,” he said, nudging me aside with his shoulder and hip. “Let it soak a while.” As he filled the pot with hot suds, he continued: “I don’t need to eavesdrop, Old Girl. You are a little predictable when it comes to asking for help. And we both know Joel