August, 1913
Thunder rolls across the blue-black sky in booms that pound against Kitty's ears, jolting her from sleep. She groans, rolling over – the bed is gloriously empty for once. Her husband is away on a business trip to France and will not return for another week.
Outside, on the landing, there is the pattering of little feet, and Kitty manages a smile. Somehow, when there's a thunderstorm, Sylvie always finds her way to their bedroom – usually Elliott sends her right back to her nanny, but since he's away now, gone, disappeared, his presence no longer hanging over her like a muffling shroud over a dead body, Kitty can do what she wants.
The door creaks open.
"Mummy?" Sylvie's voice is shaking, and Kitty swings her legs out of bed, crosses to the door to open it and scoop her daughter into her arms. There is a flash of lightening, dazzling white forking across the clouds for the barest of seconds, then another growl of thunder as though it is a bear wakened too early from its winter hibernation. The rain beats patterns like a drum on the street outside.
"What is it, little monkey?" Kitty says, holding her daughter close. Sylvie hides her face in Kitty's neck.
"Mummy, I'm scared."
"Of the thunderstorm?"
She feels her daughter nod.
"Do you want to stay with me tonight?"
Another nod.
"Come on, then, into bed." Kitty climbs back between the comforting embrace of the brocade coverlet, pulling the pillows into an upright position so she can sit with Sylvie cradled on her lap. Sylvie snuggles closer into her, and Kitty rests her head atop her daughter's mess of dark curls that defy the braid they were forced into by an irate Nanny.
"Mummy, why does it have to be so noisy?" Sylvie asks tremblingly as thunder booms overhead again. The pounding of the rain grows.
Kitty thinks for a second, and a memory pops unbidden into her head, a memory of her own fear at thunderstorms as a little girl, how her nurse – an old German lady – had taken Kitty onto her ample lap and told her a story of how thunder was made.
"Do you want to know how thunder is made?" Kitty murmurs into her daughter's hair.
Sylvie nods again.
"Thunder happens when the angels in heaven are making pastry with their rolling pins. They haven't yet learned how to be delicate with it, so they pound it out. They're making a pie for God's dinner."
"Really?" Sylvie looks up at Kitty, surprise beaming out of her dark, dark eyes.
"Yes, really, little monkey. Shall we try and sleep now?"
"Yes, Mummy."
Kitty moves the pillows and lies down, holding Sylvie close to her. Sylvie's eyes flutter shut, and within seconds she's falling into sleep, and Kitty lets herself relax as well. It's the first time she's felt so at peace for months, and she loves the way the feeling radiates outwards from the place where Sylvie's head rests against her chest.
In the morning, Kitty is woken by Sylvie shaking her. "Mummy, Mummy!"
She opens her eyes groggily. "Yes, darling?"
"Can we be like angels and make pastry with our rolling pins?"
Kitty smiles sleepily at her daughter's enthusiasm. "We'll ask Cook after breakfast."
A/N An idea that a lady from church gave me and that evolved into a little oneshot! Enjoy! N xxx.