Anna’s stern expression wavered, then collapsed entirely as she ran forward and threw herself against his side. He held them both, his wild daughters, and felt the tightness in his chest ease into something warmer.
Viola emerged last, as she always did. She stood in the doorway, her book clutched to her chest, her eyes fixed on his face with an intensity that always made him want to weep.
“Hello, little one,” he said softly.
“Will you come say hello?”
She hesitated. Then, with the particular deliberation of a child who was making a decision rather than simply reacting, she set down her book and walked across the corridor to join her sisters.
She did not throw herself at him as Thistle had. She simply slid her small hand into his free one and held on, her grip tight and her face upturned to study his.
“You look tired,” she whispered.
“I am tired.” He did not lie to Viola. She always knew anyway.
“But I’m here now.”
“For how long?”
“Three days. Perhaps four.”
She nodded, processing this information with the same solemn assessment Miss Grace might have used. Then she squeezed his hand once and stepped back to collect her book.
Rhys looked up and found Miss Grace watching from her position near the stairs. Her expression was unreadable, but something in her posture had shifted. She stood now with her weight slightly forward, as though she had been preparing to intervene and had stopped herself at the last moment.
Preparing to intervene against what? He could not say. But she had seen his daughters greet him, had watched the way they clung to him, and she was drawing conclusions.
They adore you, her posture seemed to say.They adore you, and you are going to leave them again in three days.
She did not say it aloud. But she did not need to.
“Miss Grace.” He cleared his throat.
“Thank you for the tour of the schoolroom. I am… pleased with what you’ve accomplished.”
“Thank you, Mr. Langford.” Her voice was as neutral as ever, but her eyes held something new. Speculation, perhaps, or wariness. Or simply the careful attention of a woman who was revising her understanding of a situation she had thought she understood.
“Papa,” Thistle said, tugging at his sleeve, “Miss Grace knows all the Latin names for bugs. Can you believe it? All of them. Even the ones with the long legs.”
“Can I?” He looked at the governess over his daughter’s head.
“That’s very impressive.”
“Daddy-long-legs are not actually bugs,” Miss Grace said, with a hint of what might have been amusement.
“They are arachnids. Thistle and I have had several discussions on the subject.”
“Several loud discussions,” Anna added. “Thistle doesn’t agree that spiders aren’t bugs.”
“Spiders have too many legs,” Thistle said firmly.
“It’s suspicious.”
“Eight legs is the standard configuration for arachnids,” Miss Grace replied. “We do not judge creatures for following their design specifications.”
“Can we show Papa the specimens?” Thistle was already pulling him toward the schoolroom.
“Miss Grace labelled everything. Even the snake skin. Did you know snakes have Latin names? I think Brutus should have a Latin name. Miss Grace says his Latin name is Bufo bufo but that’s just the sound he makes, which isn’t very imaginative.”
