Eleanor crossed her arms. “Amelia.”
Amelia froze, spoon hovering.
Then she smiled as though charm were a weapon she had inherited by right. “Mama,” she said sweetly, “we were making breakfast.”
Graham leaned against the doorway, watching with open amusement.
Eleanor’s gaze sharpened. “You were making chaos.”
Amelia blinked. “Breakfast is chaos.”
Eleanor turned her head slightly, as if considering the argument.
Graham covered his mouth with his fist, eyes crinkling.
Eleanor sighed, but her mouth betrayed her with a smile. “Down,” she said, lifting Amelia off the stool. “You may make breakfast by setting the table. With plates. Not jam.”
Amelia’s eyes brightened. “Can I use the good plates?”
“No.”
Amelia sighed dramatically. “Very well.”
She marched off with purpose, Bramble padding after her, tail wagging.
Eleanor set the jam on a high shelf and reached for the kettle.
Graham came up behind her, arms sliding around her waist, chin settling near her shoulder.
“Do you remember,” he murmured, “the first time you told me you were not glass?”
Eleanor’s smile softened. “Yes.”
“I believed you,” he said.
“You did not,” Eleanor corrected gently. “Not at first. But you learned.”
Graham’s arms tightened. “You taught me.”
Eleanor poured tea into two cups, the scent blooming. Then Amelia reappeared, dragging a cloth almost as large as herself.
“Papa,” she announced, “I need help. The table is too big.”
Graham released Eleanor at once and crossed to his daughter, lifting the cloth and draping it with absurd seriousness.
Amelia frowned at his precision. “It has to be straight,” she informed him.
“It does,” Graham agreed gravely.
Eleanor hid a smile behind her cup.
When Amelia was satisfied, she hopped down and ran off again, calling for Bramble as if the dog were her footman.
The house fell into its familiar rhythm.
Eleanor sat at the table with her tea, the morning light warming her hands.
Graham returned, set his cup down, and took her fingers.
