She snorts. “You tell Mr. Gallagher whatever you like. He knows how it is.”
The kitchen smells like heaven—coffee and cinnamon and something yeasty and warm. Outside the back windows, the pasture is pale with frost, the horses ghost shapes against the line of trees.
Saoirse’s plastic bowl from last night is still on the table, spoon abandoned in a puddle of melted marshmallow. There are little glitter stickers ground into the rug by the back door.
Cotton’s family farm is an undeniableestate—a level above anything I’d ever imagined when I thought of wealth, and my own family had always been very well-to-do—but I’ve always loved and been impressed that it’s first and foremost a home. It’s a house that’s lived in, a place where shoes are toed off by the door and little messes abound.
Bran stands at the window, mug in hand, watching the horses. The early light catches in his hair, making it look more brown than black.
“Do you ride?” I ask him, stealing a piece of toast off the plate Savvi just put down.
He doesn’t turn from the glass. “I’ve ridden a few times. I spent some time on one of the boss’s farms in Ireland. He had horses.”
One of the horses breaks into a lazy trot along the fence line, breath puffing in clouds.
“That’s Jasper,” I say. “The gray. He likes peppermint and hates umbrellas.”
He glances at me. “How do you know that?”
“I exist,” I say. “And I’ve been here before.”
His gaze flicks back to the horse, then to me again. “You want to go out?”
“Yes,” I say, immediately.
He gives me a look.
“In a controlled, measured, accompanied way,” I add.
He sighs, like he regrets every life choice that led to this moment.
“After breakfast,” he says. “And we clear it with Brodie.”
“Fine,” I say. “You, Savvi, and Brodie are all conspiring against me. I see how it is.”
“Someone has to,” Savvi mutters.
She hands me my own mug of coffee—finally—and kisses my forehead on her way past, like she’s been doing it my whole life. She has.
“You eat,” she says. “Then you can go annoy the horses and Mr. Kelly at the same time.”
“Being annoying is my love language,” I say.
Bran doesn’t argue with that, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
Theairoutsidebites.
The sky is that particular winter pale, almost colorless. Frost sparkles on the grass and the fence rails, glittering like someone went wild with a bedazzler. I shove my hands into my hoodie pocket as we cross the yard, breath puffing in little clouds.
Bran walks half a step behind me, matching my pace easily. He’s scanned the tree line three times since we left the porch.
“You know, if Henry is lurking in the bushes out there, he’s freezing his ass off,” I say. “Silver linings.”
“Don’t joke about him like he’s incompetent,” Bran says quietly. “That’s how people get careless.”
“I’m not careless,” I say. “I’m coping.”
“Try coping with less self-endangerment,” he says.
