A Place at Their Table

The next morning Maisie carried my place card into the breakfast room herself.

It was a piece of green paper with NELL written in large, wandering letters. She set it beside Ronan’s plate.

Ruth raised an eyebrow at the seating arrangement and said nothing.

“You’re usually at the little table with me,” Maisie explained. “But today we’re having pancakes.”

“Does that change the rules?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Ronan pulled out the chair beside him. “Pancake law is quite specific.”

I sat, trying not to notice the brush of his sleeve against mine.

For breakfast he had abandoned the vest and rolled up his cuffs. When he reached for the coffee, I saw a thin white scar across the knuckle of his right hand.

My breath caught.

The hotel memory returned with such force I smelled rain instead of maple syrup.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. Just tired.”

He glanced at Maisie. “Did she keep you up?”

“Only because the fox needed one more chance to find his house.”

“He’s had a remarkable number of chances.”

Maisie frowned at him. “He gets lost.”

“I appreciate the difficulty.”

She cut her pancake with solemn concentration. Ronan waited, resisting the obvious temptation to do it for her. When she succeeded, he praised her effort. Gold flashed in her eyes, and she climbed into my lap to hide her pleased face against my shoulder.

“You can be happy where we can see you,” I told her.

She peeked out. “I know.”

Her elbow caught my teacup as she turned. I reached too quickly, and the cup struck the edge of the plate, breaking in my hand.

“I’m sorry.” I stood with Maisie clinging to me. “I’ll clean it.”

“Stay there,” Ronan said.

The words were quiet, but I froze.

He noticed and lowered his hand.

“There’s a shard near your foot. Let me move it first.”

He cleared the floor, then took Maisie while Ruth brought a cloth. The cut on my finger was small. It should have closed already, but scentroot slowed even minor healing.

Ronan watched the bead of blood.

“May I?”

I gave him my hand.

He cleaned it with an attention that made sitting still unexpectedly difficult. His palm was warm. The quiet place inside me shifted toward it.

“You’re taking something,” he said under his breath.

I looked at Maisie, who was arranging blueberries on his plate.

“For privacy.”

He did not ask in front of her.

“Finish your breakfast,” he said instead. “Ruth has already forgiven the cup.”

“I was considering a formal complaint,” Ruth said, returning with a fresh one. “But the pancakes are getting cold.”

After breakfast Maisie went to the garden with her tutor. I remained to help gather dishes despite Ruth’s protests.

Ronan stood by the open terrace door.

“You mentioned a daughter to Maisie.”

I nearly dropped the plate I was holding.

“She told you?”

“She asked whether I could help find her. She believes my success with footwear qualifies me.”

I put the plate down.

“I didn’t mean to burden her.”

“You answered a question. That isn’t the same thing.”

Outside, Maisie was explaining something to a rosebush.

“I’ve made inquiries before,” I said. “They haven’t led anywhere.”

“You could let me look.”

The offer frightened me almost as much as it tempted me. Handing him the truth meant trusting someone with every place Julian could hurt me.

“I need a little time.”

He nodded once. “All right.”

I looked toward the garden. “Does she ask about her mother?”

His face changed. He was still composed, but the change was there, like a door opening onto a room kept carefully shut.

“Sometimes. More lately.”

“What do you tell her?”

“That I’m looking for her. That her absence is not Maisie’s fault.”

I gripped the back of the chair.

“You don’t know why she left?”

“I know too little. Other people supplied explanations. None of them persuaded me.”

“You could have stopped looking.”

“Yes.” His gaze returned to me. “I could have.”

The garden gate clicked. Maisie shouted for her father to come inspect a snail.

He set his coffee down immediately.

At the door he paused. “Whatever happened to your daughter, Miss Reed, you don’t have to explain it all at once. But you should not have to carry it alone.”

I watched him kneel beside Maisie in the damp grass.

For the first time in years, I imagined telling someone everything.

In the garden Maisie beckoned me over to inspect the snail herself.

“Daddy says he carries his house.”

“He does.”

She looked down at the curled shell. “Then he doesn’t have to find it.”

I crouched beside her. “That’s useful, isn’t it?”

“Can wolves do that?”

“Carry houses?” Ronan asked. “Only very small ones.”

She glanced at the stone building behind us, assessing its suitability.

“We could have a small one.”

“What would you put inside?” I asked.

“My bed. The blocks. Ruth’s oven.”

“That oven is quite heavy.”

She considered the difficulty, then patted Ronan’s arm.

“Daddy can carry it.”

He accepted this promotion to household transport without complaint.

When Maisie went to fetch a leaf for the snail, I remained beside him on the grass.

“She thinks you can do anything,” I said.

“It won’t last.”

“Does that make you sad?”

He watched her searching carefully beneath the rosebush.

“A little. Mostly I hope when she learns I can’t, she’ll still tell me what she needs.”

The answer stayed with me long after the snail disappeared beneath the leaves.