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Sephie: What’s with the questions, Ehrenberg?
Brahms: I’m curious by nature.
Sephie: No, that’s me. Not you.
Brahms: People can change. Ellington says you should join us, and come upstairs to talk about your mystery guest.
I huff out an exasperated breath. He’s too fucking persistent.
Sephie: Thanks, but no. I’m headed to bed.
Brahms: Alright, sleep tight. See you in the morning . . .
I bite my lip anxiously. Yes, tomorrow, I’ll have to be even more careful. Brahms is fishing for information, which means he’s up to something. Did he hear the kids? Did someone mention them? I try not to panic, but I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight.
* * *
It’s around seven a.m. when I’m helping the kids get ready for the day ahead. Aria insists on picking out her own outfit while I gently comb Ewan’s wild bedhead into some semblance of order. Their delighted chatter and laughter make my heart feel light, even with the worries weighing on my mind.
“What about the blue dress?” Ary asks, showing me that she already put on a pair of orange leggings with the ducks.
“It’s too cold,” I remind her. “Why don’t you wear the knitted dress? The one that matches those leggings.”
“It gets too itchy,” she complains.
“Put on your shoes, buddy,” I tell Ewan as I make my way to the closet.
Down the hall in the kitchen, I can hear Lucius preparing breakfast. One of his staff must be packing the lunch boxes. I don’t know what I’ll do without them when this stay ends, and we’re back home.
“Did you hear the music last night, Mommy?” Ewan asks as he shoves his feet into his sneakers. He wobbles a little, catching himself on the edge of the bed.
“It was the mean guy playing,” Aria declares, appearing from the closet in her self-chosen outfit of a neon pink skirt paired with a mismatched striped shirt. Her outfit screams ‘Aria.’
I narrow my eyes slightly, feeling that familiar tug of protective mom vibes. “Did you leave your room again?”
“No, Mommy, I just . . . guessed,” she says with an innocence in her eyes that doesn’t quite reach the mischievous tilt of her lips.
“And how’d you come to that guess?” I press, a playful skepticism evident in my tone.
She shrugs, her little shoulders rising and falling dramatically. “Who else would it be?”
The sass on this kid. Seriously. It’s like she’s channeling her inner teenage rebel a decade too early.
“Alright, you two,” I say, straightening up and shooting them a look that means business. “Let’s get a move on. Breakfast won’t eat itself, and I want us gone before the house turns into a madhouse.”
Though the brothers will likely sleep in after their late night jam session, I don’t want to risk running into them. Not when I’m this close to making it through the visit undiscovered.
Aria heaves a dramatic little sigh but continues getting ready, humming under her breath. I shake my head in amusement. My fiercely independent, whip-smart daughter keeps me on my toes. But I wouldn’t want her any other way.
I hustle the kids toward the kitchen, hoping we can avoid the brothers. But as we enter, my stomach drops. Bartók and Joplin are already there having breakfast. And Ewan has wasted no time bounding right over to them.
“Who are you?” he asks with typical six-year-old bluntness.
Joplin’s lips quirk into a smirk as he meets Ewan’s gaze. “I’m Joplin Ehrenberg. What about you, little man?”
“It’s Ewan. Ewan with a ‘W’ not a ‘V,’” he clarifies, puffing up his chest a little. “I’m six, not little.”
Joplin’s smirk deepens, and he shoots me a surprised glance. “Hey, Fifi,” he greets, the old nickname instantly transporting me back to a time I’ve tried hard to forget. “It’s been a while.”
