My mouth dries up. Not because he’s speaking the truth—and it was a damn hard truth—but because of that look in his eyes.
I work my jaw for a wordless moment. “W-Well, Pen helped when she could.” I don’t tell him that she was working nights back then. “She’d do my grocery shopping for me and help with laundry and chores on her days off, and for that I’m eternally grateful.”
His dark look doesn’t lift.
“A-And I came over here to my Nanna’s when I needed advice… or a nap.” My throat closes on the words because those rare afternoons were my lifelines. I’d pick up Maisy from daycare, nurse her in Nanna’s rocker, and then my grandmother would give her a bath in the kitchen sink while I slept. Nanna was slowing down by then—she’d already survived one heart attack—and I didn’t want to take advantage of her, but some days when she’d call me up, she just knew by the sound of my voice what I needed.
If she invited us over, refusing wasn’t an option. Not with Nanna Estelle. And if we were here, she was taking care of us.
Memories sting my nose, and I clear my throat hard.
When I look up, Lark’s gaze has softened. He opens his mouth to say something, but as he does, little Lola lets out a lusty yowl. Then another.
Saved by the baby.
“I think she needs her mama.” I’m not sure if Lark can hear the relief in my voice, but it’s there.
“Guess it’s suppertime.” And as soon as he shifts her in his arms, Baby Lola begins to root on his chest. “Whoa! Gah! Maggie!” he calls.
And then he’s moving—almost running—with the baby. Grinning, I follow, wanting to give his sister-in-law a quick greeting and offer her something to drink. Feeding Maisy used to make me instantly thirsty, but I don’t get past the foot of the stairs.
Because I hear giggling.
Not from the direction of Maisy’s room, where giggling would be expected. Nope, from upstairs.
“Maisy Estelle Mouton, you know you’re not supposed to be up there!”
The giggling evaporates like spit on the sun.
“Come down here right now!”
The pitter-patter of little feet isn’t so adorable when your kid is trespassing—with an accomplice. Two faces appear on the second floor balcony. Behind the spindles of the banister, Maisy and Grayson’s round faces peek through. Their eyes are wide with wary mischief, and they look through the lathe-turned balusters like a couple of jailbirds behind bars.
“Whatwere you doing up there?”
I must be hilarious because the only answers I get are more giggles.
“Maisy, Pen is going to put a spell on you if you were in her room again.”
Grayson gasps.
My daughter’s rasp-whisper drifts into the foyer. “I told you a witch lives here.”
Grayson needs no more convincing. He’s zooming down the stairs so fast, I jog up to spot him before he tumbles top over training pants. As soon as he’s safely on the bottom, Grayson looks up at me.
“We didn’t fine a witch’s womb. We found Unca Lawk’s womb.”
I eye him for a second, trying to make sense offining a witch’s womb.Pen definitely needs to hear about this.
“Oh! You found your uncle’sroom.”
He nods with clear delight.
I frown. “Did you go in?”
“We just—” Grayson starts.
“No,” Maisy declares.
