POV: Ember Wellesley Nightshade.
The sun had barely begun to set behind the hills, casting long golden shadows over the backyard of their modest cottage. Ember sat cross-legged on the grass, her hands stained green from plucking wild herbs her father had taught her to find. She was maybe eight — wild-haired, stubborn, sharp-eyed.
Her father knelt beside the little garden box, dirt under his nails, sleeves rolled up. He was a quiet man, the kind who didn’t speak unless he had something worth saying. Tonight, he did.
“Papa,” Ember said, threading a stem of lavender into the braid she’d tangled in her hair. “Why do we always eat dinner together? Even when you’re tired, even when Mama’s busy?”
He looked over at her, one eyebrow raised. “Because that’s what families do.”
“But not everyone
