“Amelia, try these,” she said, her voice saccharine. “I baked them myself with eggs and milk. They’re my best batch yet.”
I took the plate but didn’t eat. The word egg triggered a visceral reaction. Memories from prison flooded back—being forced to the ground, licking eggs crushed into filth. My stomach churned violently, and nausea clawed at my throat.
“Amelia, you don’t like them?” Irene’s voice was laced with feigned innocence, her eyes glinting with malice. “They’re really good. Everyone says so.”
Before I could respond, Gilbert’s temper flared.
“Amelia,” he barked, “don’t put on airs. Irene baked those for you out of kindness. The least you can do is show some gratitude. Stop being so ungrateful!”
Ungrateful. The word stung, but I was too weary to argue. I had no airs left to put on—prison had stripped them all away.
“I don’t like eggs,” I said quietly, my voice devoid of emotion.
“Don’t talk nonsense. How could I not know you don’t like eggs?” Gilbert snapped, his voice dripping with impatience. “You’re just looking for trouble, aren’t you? Blaming me for everything?”