His mouth twitched. “Yes,” he said. “Very much so.”
The little girl beamed proudly, as though this were a major accomplishment.
I let my gaze move between them more carefully now.
The boy stood closest to his father, as if his instinct was to protect. He had an adaptive personality and social intelligence. I could feel it in the way he watched reactions before speaking, assembling versions of himself depending on what was required.
The eldest daughter had her grief tucked in under the guise of control, her keen eyes always observing. Her cardigan was buttoned too neatly, and her expression was too composed for someone so young. She was the kind of child who would prefer information over vulnerability every time.
And the smallest one?—
She was adorable with curly blonde hair, big blue eyes, and pale skin. She looked up at me with an untamed curiosity. I could tell she moved without enough fear. Climbed too close to the edges, emotionally and physically. She was testing boundaries, which explained the flour. She’d lost her mother at such a young age, and now, without realizing it, tried to fill the void with misbehavior.
Poor little thing.
Poor all of them.
“Miss Carrington,” Mr. Lawrence said.
“Winnie is perfectly acceptable.”
He looked momentarily thrown by that, then he stepped inside. “Right. Of course. Please come in.”
I folded my parasol before crossing the threshold. The house smelled faintly of pancakes and lemon cleaner. The foyer was beautiful, though slightly oppressive like large homes often were. I took in the expensive millwork and tall ceilings, noting all the empty space between objects. It was a house built for impressive dinner parties.
Homes reflected the people who occupied them. This one looked maintained rather than lived-in, except for the children. They had left evidence of themselves everywhere.
An abandoned shoe lay beneath the staircase, and the banister was covered in fingerprints. Books spilled from the doorway in the sitting room. There was also something sticky on the wall that Mr. Lawrence had either not noticed or intentionally stopped acknowledging for the sake of his own sanity.
He gestured toward the hall. “I thought I’d start with a tour of the house. Then we’ll discuss expectations, schedules, technology, all of that.”
Technology. My greatest modern enemy besides automatic flushing toilets.
“That sounds lovely.”
“What’s your hat made of?” the little girl asked.
“Billie,” the girl beside her hissed.
“What? It’s a normal question.”
“It’s velvet,” I said.
Billie inhaled dramatically. “I knew it.”
The boy stepped forward and offered me his hand. “I’m Conrad Jr., but everyone calls me CJ.”
I shook his hand. “A pleasure.”
He grinned immediately, clearly pleased I had taken him seriously. Children appreciated respect far more than adults gave them credit for.
The older daughter remained where she was. After a moment, she said, “Bianca.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
Her expression shifted almost imperceptibly—suspicion mixed with embarrassment.
Mr. Lawrence looked between us, probably waiting for disaster. Poor man. He had the posture of someone perpetually bracing for impact.
