[Celeste]
Breakfast wasn't nearly as awkward as I'd expected it to be. Ryder sat at the head of the table, composed and unreadable as always, while I was perched to his left, trying—and failing—not to glance at him every few minutes.
The chef, Mr. Grace, had already come and gone, leaving until later in the evening when she'd return to make dinner.
Ryder, predictably, was making his way through an impressive amount of protein, while I nibbled at my toast. Elvis, ever the stoic butler, stood silently, his presence almost ghostlike. I wondered if he ever sat down to eat like a normal person. I'd caught him once or twice in the kitchen, quietly enjoying a meal, but never here at the dining table. He was all too devoted to his role.
I poked at the fried eggs on my plate, my thoughts wande
