After dinner, Avery remained in Dorothea's room.
Dorothea sat on the carpet, her paintbrushes clutched in her hand, while Avery held a children's picture book, reading softly:
"...In the heart of the forest lived a great beast covered in jagged thorns. It captured the only nightingale whose song could soothe its agonizing headaches, locking the bird inside a cage of pure gold."
Avery's finger paused on the edge of the illustrated page.
Dorothea leaned against her knee, her muted grey eyes blinking up at her. "Mommy, the nightingale has wings to fly. Why doesn't it run away? The forest outside is so big."
Looking down into her daughter's eyes, which were an exact replica of that man's, Avery felt a sharp ache pierce her chest.
"Because the beast holds the nightingale's favorite flower
