"I should probably check on your mother," Father said, though he made no move toward the door. Instead, he lingered in the doorway like a man who wasn't sure he was welcome in his own house anymore. "She's been... quiet today."
Quiet. That was one way to describe the hollow-eyed silence that had settled over Mother since Hartwell's visit. She'd taken to spending hours in what used to be her sitting room, staring out the windows at the garden she'd cultivated for fifteen years. A garden that would soon belong to strangers who probably wouldn't know or care that the white roses along the south wall needed to be pruned just so, or that the lavender by the gate required specific soil conditions to thrive.
"She'll be fine," I said, though I wasn't sure I believed it. "We all will."
The words felt hollow even as I spoke them—the kind of reassurance people offered when they couldn't think of anything else to say. But Father's shoulders relaxed slightly, as if my confidence could somehow make it true.
"Yes," he said. "Of course we will."
Jamie had returned to his soldier game, but I could tell he was listening to every word. Children were like that—absorbing adult conversations through some sort of emotional osmosis, filing away details they didn't understand but knew were important.
"Will you be staying at the inn tonight?" I asked. "If the business takes longer than expected?"
Father's mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. "No. Too expensive. I'll complete my business and return, even if it means riding in the dark."
Too expensive. Three months ago, the cost of a night's lodging wouldn't have registered on our financial consciousness. Now it was a consideration that could determine whether we ate well for the rest of the week.
I finished the last stitch on Jamie's coat and bit off the thread, holding the garment up to examine my work. It wasn't perfect—the stitches were visible if you knew where to look, and the fabric would always be slightly puckered along the seam. But it would keep him warm, and sometimes function was more important than beauty.
"There," I said, shaking out the coat and holding it up for Jamie to see. "Good as new."
He abandoned his soldier to inspect my handiwork, running his small fingers along the mended tear with the kind of careful attention that suggested he understood its significance. "It's perfect, Cat. Thank you."
The simple gratitude in his voice made my throat tight. When had we become the kind of family where mending a torn coat warranted such appreciation? When had we started treating basic necessities like precious gifts?
Father was still standing in the doorway, his gaze fixed on something beyond the kitchen windows. The afternoon light cast his profile in sharp relief, highlighting the new lines around his eyes and the way his jaw had started to carry a perpetual tension.
"Father," I said, the word coming out more formal than I'd intended. We'd been more careful with each other lately, more polite—as if politeness could somehow protect us from the harder truths we weren't ready to acknowledge.
He turned toward me, eyebrows raised in question.
"When you go to town today," I said, trying to keep my tone light, conversational, "might you bring back something small? Nothing expensive," I added quickly, seeing the way his expression tightened. "Just... something beautiful. Something that reminds us there's still beauty in the world."
It was a ridiculous request, I knew. We were selling our possessions to pay debts, not acquiring new ones. But something in me craved proof that loveliness still existed beyond our current circumstances—that somewhere, somehow, there were still things worth preserving simply because they were beautiful.
Father's expression softened, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of the man he'd been before everything fell apart. The father who'd brought me books from his travels, who'd taught me to appreciate art and music and all the finer things that money could buy but couldn't create.
"What kind of something?" he asked.
I pretended to consider, though the answer came to me immediately. "A flower, perhaps. A rose, if they have them this far from civilization." I smiled as I said it, making it sound like a whim rather than a need. "Something to brighten the kitchen table."
The request was simple enough—innocent, even. A single flower cost almost nothing, and it would give him something pleasant to focus on during what was bound to be an unpleasant day of negotiations and farewells.
But something shifted in Father's expression as I spoke. A flicker of something I couldn't quite identify—unease, maybe, or recognition. As if my words had stirred some memory he'd been trying to forget.
"A rose," he repeated, the word sitting strangely on his tongue.
"If you can find one," I said quickly. "It's not important. Just a thought."
Jamie looked up from his soldier, suddenly interested in the adult conversation. "I like roses," he announced. "They smell like Mother's perfume."
Used to smell like Mother's perfume, I corrected silently. The expensive French perfume was probably in someone else's possession by now, along with most of her other luxuries.