The convent’s grand hall had been transformed into a warm haven against the sharp Boston winter. Wreaths of evergreen and holly framed the tall windows, and the scent of cinnamon-baked apples mingled with beeswax candles. Orphans in pressed jackets darted between tables, their laughter ringing under the vaulted ceiling.Monet stood near the stage, smoothing down Sasha’s white dress for the fifth time that evening.“You look like an angel,” she murmured, tucking a curl behind the girl’s ear.Sasha’s dark eyes lit up, but there was always that flicker—one Monet knew all too well—the guardedness of a child who had learned not to expect too much.“Do you think… people will want to adopt me this year?” Sasha’s voice was quiet, but in the busy hall, it felt like a private plea.Monet’s throat tightened. She crouched so they were face-to-face. “They’d be lucky to have you, Sasha. But if not this year, there’s still next, and the year after that. You’ve got time.”“You didn’t,” Sasha said
Morning sunlight spilled in thin ribbons through the tall windows of the convent dining hall. The air smelled faintly of porridge and wood polish, the low hum of quiet conversation broken now and then by the clink of a spoon. Monet sat at the far end of the table, her bowl untouched, her hands curled around the warmth as though it might anchor her. She’d been like this all morning moving when others moved, speaking when spoken to, but her mind was elsewhere. In the photograph. On Meredith’s almost-hollow eyes. On Carter’s pout. Her fingers itched for a pen. After clearing her dishes, she slipped away to the small writing desk tucked in the library’s corner. A jar of black ink sat beside a stack of plain stationery, the same kind used for donor thank-you notes. She dipped the pen, her hand hovering above the page. “My dear Meredith and Carter……” Her chest squeezed. She could almost hear Meredith reading it aloud in that breathless way she had, interrupting herself to add her own
Richard entered the drawing room to find Florence and Maxwell laughing over something the children had said. The sight was… unfamiliar. The room, usually a place of quiet order and muted conversation, felt almost too alive. The fire was burning brighter than usual, laughter lingered in the air like perfume, and for a moment he wasn’t entirely sure if he’d walked into his own home or someone else’s.Florence, seated regally on the sofa, glanced over at him, her eyes sharp as ever but softened by amusement. “Richard, dear,” she said, the words deceptively casual. “We were talking about Monet.”He stilled at the name. “Were you now?”“Yes!” Meredith piped up from the floor where she sat cross-legged, sorting puzzle pieces into neat piles. “We told Uncle Max how she tucks us in even when tired. And how she makes the best hot chocolate. Oh and how she sings. She doesn’t sound like Mum used to, but… It’s still nice.”Richard’s throat tightened. He could hear Monet’s voice in his mind—soft,
The sound of the front door closing echoed faintly through the marble hallway. Richard glanced up from the tray of hot cocoa he was pouring only to see a tall, broad figure stride in like he owned the place. Tattoos peeked from under the cuff of his rolled-up sleeves, and his grin was already halfway to trouble.“Maxwell,” Richard said flatly, putting the marshmallows in the two mugs he'd poured. “You could have called.”“And miss the look on your face right now?” Maxwell slung his bag onto the nearest armchair. “Not a chance.”From the staircase came the pounding of small feet, followed by Meredith’s excited squeal. “Uncle Max!” She practically launched herself at him.Maxwell caught her easily, hoisting her onto his hip. “There’s my favorite niece—”“I’m your only niece,” Meredith said, but she beamed anyway.From behind her, Carter appeared with Florence, his little legs pumping to keep up. “Up!” he demanded, reaching for Maxwell.“Alright, alright, you can both have turns.” Maxwel
The envelope lay on the corner of his desk like something that didn’t belong there. Richard had ignored it for a week, shuffling it beneath contracts, correspondence, and two unopened bank statements until Florence appeared in his study, picked it up, and dropped it in front of him.“You haven’t RSVP’d,” she said.He didn’t look up from the spreadsheet glowing on his monitor. “I’m not in the mood for tuxedos and polite lies.”“It’s tradition,” she countered, smoothing the lapel of her navy coat. “The Elmsworth Winter Gala is one of the only things holding our family foundation’s reputation together. You’re expected.”Richard tapped the end of his pen against the desk, a steady, muted click. “You could go without me. You and the children, it'll be good for them.”“Perhaps,” Florence said evenly. “But people will notice. People always notice when the Abbotts are fractured.”He glanced at her then, sharp enough to sting. “We’re not fractured.” “Maxwell hasn't been in town since
The first snow came early that year. Elmsworth was awash in gray skies and frost-kissed rooftops by the fourth week of November. The chill sank into everything—bones, breaths, and silences.Richard stirred the fireplace in the study, watching the orange glow fight the cold shadows creeping through the corners of the room. Carter lay curled on the couch, fast asleep with one of his toy soldiers on his chest. Meredith sat by the window, knees to her chest, doodling absently in her sketchpad.Florence stepped in with a folded shawl, placing it gently over Carter’s shoulders.“He’s been sleeping more,” she murmured.“It’s the weather,” Richard replied, though they both knew better. The cold wasn’t just outside.There was an absence in the house that not even firewood could warm.Florence cleared her throat. “I’ve arranged for someone to help in the afternoons. Just for a few hours. A nanny—retired teacher. Good woman.”Richard looked up, expression guarded.“She’s not replacing anyone,” F