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His light brown hair looked closer to blond. It was beautifully styled, with a slight wave in front. Against the color of his hair and his tanned face, his dark blue eyes were more prominent. They nearly matched his lapis ring. I could see that Kiera inherited most of her good looks from him, because the features of his face, his perfectly shaped nose and strong mouth, seemed as sculptured as hers were. He looked athletic, and later, when he stood, I’d see that he was a good four inches taller than Mrs. March.
He sat back when Mrs. March rose to take me from Mrs. Duval.
“Here she is,” Mrs. March said. She put me to the right of Mr. March. Kiera sat across from him, and Mrs. March sat on his left. “Sasha, this is my husband, Donald.”
“Hello,” I said, or at least I thought I did. My voice seemed trapped inside my trembling body. I saw that Kiera had a look of disgust on her face.
Donald March sat back, still studying me. “How’s your leg doing?” he asked as a greeting.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Ugh,” Kiera said. “Couldn’t she put a shoe on that foot?”
Mrs. March pushed me closer to the table. My broken leg just slipped under it so she wouldn’t have to look at my foot. She glared at Kiera and took her seat across from me.
“You’re putting her in Alena’s place, you know,” Kiera said.
Mr. March raised his eyebrows as if he’d just realized that himself. The table could easily seat a dozen people. Why was Kiera sitting at the end? Shouldn’t Mrs. March be sitting across from her husband?
“You could sit closer, Kiera.”
“I’m fine where I am,” she said. Then she smiled. “I can look at Daddy better.”
I glanced at him. He obviously liked that and smiled back at her.
Mrs. Duval began to bring in our salads. Mr. March sat forward again and lifted his salad fork. Was that all he was going to say to me? I wondered as he began to eat.
“Sasha is off to a wonderful start with Mrs. Kepler, who says she has no doubt she’ll have her up to speed before the end of the summer,” Mrs. March said.
“Who’s Mrs. Kepler again?” Mr. March asked.
“Her tutor, Donald, remember?”
“Oh, yes.” He looked at me and nodded.
“I hate talking about the end of summer. I can’t stand the idea of it ending,” Kiera muttered. She pushed some of her salad off to the side. “Look at this! I keep telling her I don’t like beets and artichokes. Why can’t they remember?”
“Why can’t you remember to hang up your clothes, especially those that we have dry-cleaned and pressed for you?” Mrs. March countered.
“I thought that was what servants are for,” Kiera said.
“If you don’t cherish the things we buy you, we shouldn’t buy you so much.”
“Whatever,” Kiera said, shrugging. Then she smiled. “I’ll buy my own things.”
Mr. March seemed not to hear the exchange. He was too involved in his wine, bread, and salad. I began to eat my salad and thought it was wonderful. It had so many flavors and was crunchy, just the way I liked it. The hospital salad and the salads I had eaten at the March house before were not as good, I thought. Maybe special things were saved for dinners with Mr. March.
“We’re going to have to do something with your fingernails,” Mrs. March told me, smiling. “I’ll take you to my manicurist.”
I looked at my fingers. My nails were uneven, but the idea of trimming them and putting on nail polish was something I hadn’t thought about for quite a while. Ages, it seemed. It was almost a foreign concept. Mama used to do them for me, but that was so long ago that it was like something I had seen in an old movie on television.
When Mr. March finished his salad, he sat back and turned to me again. “How long were you and your mother homeless?” he asked.
“Nearly a year.”
“She lived in a carton, you know. Didn’t you? You told me you did,” Kiera added before I could admit to it or deny it.
“Yes, we did,” I said.
