During breakfast, Dorothea kept her eyes fixed on the staircase.
Avery sat across from her, mechanically stirring her oatmeal, her gaze never leaving her daughter for a single second.
The word "lullaby" from Drake the previous night felt like a thin wire tightened around her throat. The moment Dorothea left her sight, the wire would snap.
"Mommy," Dorothea called out.
The spoon in Avery's hand jerked violently. "What is it, baby?"
"Where is the uncle?"
"He is unwell. He is resting upstairs."
Avery pushed the glass of milk toward her, her movements stiff.
"Dorothea, finish your milk. Do not go to the garden to paint today."
Dorothea did not move. She looked at the strawberry on her fork, then back at the stairs. "Where does he feel unwell?"
"His shoulder. He was... accidentally in
