After we finished the snowman, we trooped back inside, snow covered and hungry.
Breakfast was already laid out on the dining table. The invisible staff had outdone themselves, probably sensing the tension in the house. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, pastries that looked like they belonged in a French bakery.
Noah attacked his food with the single minded focus of a child who’d burned energy in the cold. Adrian picked at his eggs, pushing them around his plate more than eating. I forced myself to take bites of pancake that tasted like cardboard in my mouth.
“You need to eat,” Adrian said, noticing.
“So do you.”
“I can’t. My stomach’s in knots.”
“Mine too.”
Noah looked up from his pancakes, syrup on his chin. “Why are you both being weird?”
“We’re not being weird,” Adrian said.
