LAVENDER’S POV
Aunty Tracy is talking. I know she is, because her voice is moving through the room in soft, steady waves, the way it always does when she’s trying to anchor me to something ordinary. She’s standing by the window of the guest sitting room at the Robinson estate, sunlight spilling across the polished floor, her hands busy with nothing in particular, straightening a cushion that doesn’t need straightening, touching the edge of a table as if confirming it’s real.
She does that when she’s worried. I’m curled into the couch, one hand resting unconsciously on my stomach. The bump is small but undeniable now. A quiet truth beneath fabric and fear.
“…and if you feel tired later, we can skip the walk,” she’s saying. “No pressure, Lavender. You’re doing enough just breathing these
