This is what Clara used to protect—Ivy’s softness and her happiness.
Irina begins stacking bowls into the sink, then glances at the clock on the wall. “All right,printsessa. Cookie operation is over. It is time to clean up and get to bed.”
“But Papa just got home.”
“It is still bedtime,” Irina replies without sympathy while wiping flour from the counter.
Ivy sighs before wandering back toward the island to help clean up. Maggie joins her, rinsing the measuring spoons while Ivy carefully pours leftover sprinkles back into the containers, with the concentration of a surgeon.
While Irina turns toward the pantry, Maggie steps closer to me near the edge of the island.
“We still need to talk,” she whispers enough that Ivy can’t hear.
I hold her eyes before nodding. “We will.”
“When?”
“As soon as Ivy goes to bed.”
Maggie searches my face like she’s trying to decide whether to trust that answer. Before she can respond, Ivy spins around.
“Maggie has to read a bedtime story tonight.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Not me?”
“Not you tonight.” Ivy points toward Maggie decisively. “Her.”
“Well,” Maggie says brightly as she dries her hands on a dish towel, “I accept this tremendous honor.”
“You have to do the voices too,” Ivy informs her.
“Oh honey, I commit fully to bedtime storytellin’.”
Irina glances over her shoulder. “Last night she made me perform every single character from Charlotte’s Web.”
Maggie presses one hand against her chest. “I’ll have you know I do an excellent Wilbur.”
Ivy bursts into laughter again before grabbing Maggie’s hand. “Come on.”
She clings to Maggie’s hand the entire walk upstairs while Winston and Daisy trot behind them across the hallway runner. I follow several steps behind listening to Ivy chatter endlessly about tomorrow’s adoption event at the shelter while Maggie answers her gently despite the tension still burning beneath her skin. I can feel it from across the hallway. She’s still angry, confused, and emotionally raw from everything I’m not telling her, but she’s here anyway. That matters more than she knows.
Ivy’s bedroom glows beneath warm lamps and strings of tiny fairy lights stretched across the ceiling. Pink curtains frame the windows beside white shelves filled with books and stuffed animals, while framed photographs sit scattered across every surface.
She climbs beneath the blankets while Maggie settles beside her with a storybook resting across her lap. Winston circles twice across the rug before collapsing near the bed, while Daisy curls against the opposite side of the mattress. I remain near the doorway watching them.
Maggie reads quietly while Ivy leans against her side, listening intently. Every few pages, Ivy interrupts with questions or opinions about the characters, and Maggie answers every single one with enough animation in her voice to keep Ivy completely engaged.
Halfway through the story, Ivy yawns so hard her entire body curls with it. Maggie smiles before brushing hair away from Ivy’sforehead and continues to read. Ivy fights sleep stubbornly for another few minutes before finally losing the battle.
Maggie closes the book quietly and sits there for a moment, simply looking at her. The tenderness in her face almost undoes me before she glances toward me near the doorway, and every emotion from downstairs returns instantly. The warmth fades from her expression, replaced again by tension and expectation.
I motion toward the hallway. She follows me without speaking.
The bedroom door clicks shut behind us before Maggie turns fully toward me beneath the hallway lights. Loose strands of brown hair frame her face while exhaustion shadows beneath her eyes.
She looks painfully human standing here in the middle of my world. Soft where this life has made everyone else hard. Entirely out of place beside men carrying guns beneath tailored jackets.
“Talk,” she says, her voice low but direct, and the look in her eyes leaves no room for avoidance, hesitation, or anything except confrontation.
