Kindness was a choice.
Attachment had consequences. I knew that better than anyone.
Once, before all of this, I had loved children without fear. My younger siblings had clung to my skirts in a cottage far smaller and colder than this house, their faces wind-chapped, their hands always reaching. I had raised them as much asmy mother had—it was the norm in those days for the eldest daughter to become the secondary mother. I had fed them porridge and patched their sleeves. I had threatened them at bedtime—not that they’d ever believed me. I had told stories by candlelight when hunger made them restless, kissed bruised knees, untangled hair, washed fever from foreheads. I had believed, with all my heart, that one day I would do the same for my own children.
Then poverty decided otherwise.
I went into household service because there were mouths to feed, because a position in a fine house was salvation when one had too many brothers and sisters and too little bread. I told myself it would be temporary. I told myself I would send my wages home, earn my place, return one day with gifts and grand stories and enough money to make everything easier.
I did return, in a manner of speaking, years later.
Hidden beneath a veil, I’d stood at the edge of a road, far enough away that none of them would recognize the woman who had not aged. My little brother had children by then. My sister had our mother’s hands. Life had continued without me because life always had the indecency to continue.
The onion beneath my knife blurred.
I blinked the old memory back into place and continued my task. This family was not mine. It was important that I remember that.
It was also increasingly difficult to do so.
From the family room, Billie called, “Winnie, the frog is poisonous and beautiful. I approve of her choice in a mate.”
“I’m sure she would appreciate that,” I said, raising my voice slightly so she could hear me. I knew, without a doubt, the other two would have something to say as well.
Sure enough, Bianca’s reply followed. “The narrator says the bright coloring warns predators away. Beauty is incidental.”
“Maybe beauty is the warning,” CJ said.
Conrad made a small sound that might have been laughter. “I’m too sick for philosophy on frogs.”
I smiled down at the soup despite myself.
By early afternoon, everyone had consumed food and tea, and they’d all kept it down. Conrad even tried to help carry dishes back to the kitchen, which earned him a look from me.
“You heard the queen,” CJ told him from the couch.
Conrad set the bowls down instantly. “It seems I’ve been overruled.”
His gaze held mine a moment longer than necessary. Something unspoken rested there, fragile from fever and fatigue and the intimacy of shared exhaustion. Then Billie sneezed so violently that the moment fled for its life.
A little after three, while the younger girls were half-dozing downstairs and Conrad had been ordered into the armchair with tea, a bell rang from upstairs.
CJ.
I had given each child a small silver bell that morning after realizing the house was too large and my hearing, while excellent, did not make shouting through illness any less undignified. Billie had immediately called hers “the summoningbell” and attempted to use it to request a personal cloud. Bianca had asked whether there was a maximum number of permitted rings per hour. CJ had accepted his with unusual seriousness.
I found him propped up in Conrad’s bed, laptop open on his knees, frustration etched on his face. He’d improved enough to look restless, but not enough to do anything with it.
“You rang, sir?” I asked from the doorway.
He closed the laptop halfway, too quickly. “Not sir.”
“No?”
“I’m more of a duke in exile.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace.”
His mouth lifted, but only a little. The frustration remained.
