“That seems limited.”
“It is.”
“Useful?”
“Of course.”
I consider that. Salvatore Ricci does nothing without purpose. A nod isn’t acknowledgment. It’s recognition. Of structure. Of permanence. Of something that has moved beyond question into fact.
“I don’t need his approval,” I say.
“No, you don’t.”
“But it matters.”
“Yes.”
That irritates me, which means it’s true. I shift in the chair. The twins shift with me. Everything is shared now. Even emotions.
“I’m not performing this,” I say.
Teresa doesn’t ask what I mean.
“I’m not… adapting for them,” I continue. “For the council. For the household. For him.”
“No.”
“I’m choosing it.”
“Yes.”
“I need that to remain clear.”
“It is.”
“I won’t have it reframed.”
“It won’t be.”
I look at her. “You sound certain.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because you are.”
That answer is unacceptable in its simplicity. It’s also correct.
I exhale slowly. The room holds it. No one rushes to fill the silence here anymore. That’s another change.
Teresa moves to the wardrobe. Adjusts something that doesn’t need adjusting. Then again, everything here needed adjusting once.
“I moved the linen,” she says.
“I saw.”
“You didn’t object.”
