My attention remains fixed on Maggie while she hugs my daughter. Beneath the warmth of the moment, irritation coils through me because I should be telling her about the photographs, increasing security around her apartment, and putting distance between us until this situation with the Italians stabilizes.
Instead, I watch her smile at Ivy while Winston wiggles wildly between them, and Daisy noses insistently against Maggie’s hand for attention. All I can think about are the sounds she made in my bed last night.
It’s not ideal.
Maggie finally glances up. The second our eyes meet, the air between us turns thick. Recognition moves between us instantly,enough to tighten every muscle across my shoulders. Color rises slowly into her cheeks.
Interesting.
I step forward before the interrogation grows worse, my fingers brushing Maggie’s briefly as I take Winston from her arms. The small contact changes her breathing just enough for me to notice. Enough for heat to move low through my body.
The second Winston is back on the floor, he scrambles toward Maggie again while Daisy licks her hand for more attention.
“Who’s my favorite tiny security guard?” Maggie asks, crouching beside Winston and scratching Daisy behind the ears.
Ivy beams proudly beside her. “He protected the kitchen today.”
“From what?” Maggie asks, amused.
“Me,” Irina calls from the dining room.
Maggie laughs and glances toward the dining room. “Hi, Irina.”
“Good evening, Maggie,” Irina calls back. “The tiny security guard believes he now owns the estate.”
“That sounds about right,” Maggie laughs again.
The sound moves warmly through the house, in a way that feels unfamiliar after years of silence and careful routine, as if she belongs here already. That thought irritates me enough to drag a hand across the back of my neck and look away from her.
Ivy grabs Maggie’s hand before I can think about it any longer.
“Come see my project.”
Before Maggie can answer, Ivy drags her toward the staircase while Daisy races after them, and Winston barks encouragement.
“Manners,” I call after her.
“Sorry,” Ivy throws back over her shoulder without slowing down.
Halfway up the stairs, Maggie glances back at me helplessly, laughter still lingering in her voice.
The first floor grows quieter after that, and I remain lingering near the foyer while staring upward. The house hasn’t sounded this alive in years.
Clara loved loud rooms. Music playing somewhere in the background. People talking over each other. Movement in every corner of the house. After her death, silence became easier. Safer.
Now Maggie walks through these halls, and suddenly Ivy smiles constantly. I dislike how quickly she attached herself to Maggie. I dislike it even more because I understand why.
Irina passes by the foyer on her way to the kitchen, pausing briefly beside me.
“Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes,” she says.
“Good.”
She glances at the staircase before returning to me. “She is good for Ivy.”
Irina inclines her head once, like she understands more than she intends to say aloud, before continuing toward the kitchen.
I head upstairs, following the sound of Ivy’s voice, stopping outside the partially open bedroom door. Construction paper covers half the carpet alongside markers, glue sticks, and enough glitter to qualify as biological warfare.
