Behind him came Lily, twelve years old and balanced on the knife-edge between child and woman. Her hair was braided, her hands clasped tight, and her eyes were bright blue, though shadowed by something too old for her age. The twins, Noah and Nora, stood close together, blond and freckled and watchful in the way of children who had learned not to take up too much space. Maggie clung to Rosie’s hand, the six-year-old’s gap-toothed mouth set with determination while the smallest girl stared with enormous brown eyes that looked like they had been taught to expect disappointment.
“You’re the new cook,” Ethan said. He made it sound like an accusation.
“I am.” Clara kept her voice gentle but steady, refusing to apologize for existing. “My name is Mrs. Whitfield. You can call me Clara, if you like.”
“We don’t like,” Ethan said flatly. “You’re the help. You get a title. Same as the hands.”
“Ethan.” Luke’s voice came from behind them, sharp with warning. He’d appeared in the doorway without Clara noticing, hat in his hands, dust on his shoulders. “Mind your manners.”
“Yes, sir,” Ethan answered. The words were correct. The tone carried defiance like a hidden blade.
Clara felt something tighten in her chest, recognition blooming in an unpleasant place. She knew that kind of anger. She had worn it herself after Thomas died, when well-meaning people tried to tell her how grief should look and how quickly it should end.
“Sit down,” Luke said. “All of you.”
They moved to the table with practiced efficiency, each child finding a place as if this ritual were one of the few stable structures left in their lives. Ethan sat nearest his father. Lily beside him. The twins side by side. Maggie and Rosie at the far end, Rosie lifted into a high chair someone had pulled out without Clara noticing.
Luke sat, then gestured for Clara to take the remaining chair across from Ethan. She did, feeling the weight of six pairs of eyes tracking her every movement.
