After I Woke Inside a Blended Family

I set the coffee down before I threw it at Simon. He had Owen by the collar at the edge of the terrace steps, one hand bunched in the back of the smaller boy's coat. Owen's shoes had slipped in the wet grass. A dark smear of mud covered his sleeve. "Let go," I said. Simon glanced at me. At fourteen, he had already learned how to make a smirk look like a family heirloom. "He was in my way." "He was walking to the house." "Then he should've watched where he was going." Owen didn't tug against Simon's grip. He stood straight despite the mud, his face pale and still. A narrow scar crossed the base of his thumb. I recognized it from the book I'd read on my phone the night before, in the life that had ended in a highway collision. The boy in the story was Prince Rowan, living under a false name after an attack on the royal family. I had woken in the body of Mara Wren, the rich widow's new wife. The story had called her a wicked stepmother. I had expected a headache. I had not expected the pale-blue words that appeared in the air. HOUSEHOLD BALANCE PROTOCOL Repeated harm to a dependent child will create a lasting grievance. The restored heir will remember who permitted it. Now, in the actual garden, Simon's fingers tightened. "Simon," I said again. "Let him go." My husband, Adrian, appeared in the open doorway behind me. "What's going on?" Simon released Owen. "Nothing." Owen rubbed the spot on his collar. "I slipped." The lie was small and courteous. It made my stomach turn. "Inside, both of you," Adrian said. He sounded tired, not angry. "We have a guest arriving before lunch." Simon went first. Owen followed, keeping a careful distance. Adrian touched my arm as I passed. "Don't make this into a scene," he murmured. "I'm trying not to." "Good. Simon's had enough upheaval." I looked through the doorway at my stepson's broad shoulders. He had lost his mother four years ago. I knew that from the book and from the framed portrait in the east hall. I also knew the previous Mara had indulged him, terrified that one firm boundary would prove she didn't love him. That fear had done him no favors. At breakfast, Simon sat at the end of the long table and pushed his eggs around his plate. Owen sat halfway down, beside the empty chair Adrian had assigned him. He still wore a dark line of mud along one cuff. I placed a clean napkin beside his plate. "You can change after breakfast," I said. "Thank you, Mrs. Wren." "Mara is fine." His eyes lifted to mine. For one second, something sharpened behind them, then disappeared. "Thank you, Mara." Simon's fork clinked against his plate. "He called you Mara." "He did." "You told me not to." "I told you to call me Mara when we were alone. At the table, Mrs. Wren is fine too." "So he gets to choose?" "He gets the same choice you do." Simon shoved back from the table. "I'm not hungry." Adrian lowered his newspaper. "Sit down." Simon stopped, shoulders rigid. He looked at me instead, as if waiting for me to rescue him from the correction. I didn't. He sat. After breakfast, I found Adrian in the library checking messages. I closed the door behind me. "What exactly is Owen doing here?" "Staying with us for a few weeks." "Why?" "His guardian asked for a quiet place while the palace handles a security matter." I kept my face still. The story had called him an orphaned scholarship boy. It hadn't mentioned a security matter until the prince's identity came out. "Does Simon know anything about it?" "Only that Owen is a guest. That's all he needs to know." "He's also a child in our care." "I understand that." Adrian set his phone down. "I do. But I need you not to interrogate Owen. He's had enough people treating him like a problem." The words struck too close to my own immediate plan. "I'm not planning to interrogate him." "Good. And please don't overreact to Simon. His mother's anniversary is this week." There it was: the familiar invitation to overlook harm because another pain existed nearby. "I won't overreact," I said. "But I won't pretend nothing happened." Adrian watched me for a moment, then reached for his phone again. "I'm sure you'll find a way to handle it." The blue letters returned as soon as I stepped into the hall. FAIRNESS IS NOT IDENTICAL TREATMENT. PROTECT BOTH CHILDREN. RECORD REPEATED HARM. I pressed my fingertips to the wall. The letters faded. Downstairs, Simon laughed at something on his phone. Owen sat opposite him, reading a book with his muddy sleeve turned inward. I had not chosen this family. I had not chosen the story that had written a disaster around them. But I could choose what happened in the next five minutes. I went to the mudroom and fetched a towel.