“It’s all right,” I said gently, turning to him. “We’re just comparing philosophies.”
Eleanor exhaled through her nose, smiling again, though this time it didn’t reach anywhere near her eyes.
“Of course, dear. Philosophies.”
Dessert plates were cleared in silence. The faint sound of silver against china filled the void. Outside, the rain had started again—soft, steady, the kind that turns reflections into watercolor.
Richard rose, straightening his jacket.
“Well,” he said, glancing at his wife. “Shall we move to the parlor for coffee?”
Eleanor nodded, her composure fully restored.
“Yes. Let’s.”
As we stood, she touched my arm lightly—a gesture that felt more like a reminder of rank than affection.
“You’ve got quite a spark, Claire. I hope you never lose it.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, matching her tone. “It doesn’t depend on approval.”
She smiled, serene and sharp.
“How fortunate.”
We moved toward the parlor, Daniel walking beside me in silence. I could feel the apology he couldn’t bring himself to say. When we passed a polished glass cabinet filled with vintage crystal, I caught my reflection—linen dress, messy bun, bare hands—and I smiled.