Margaret's perfume was the first thing to reach them—rich, floral, and unmistakably strong. Clara recognized it immediately. The last time they met, Margaret had worn that same scent, like armor. It filled every room she walked into, just as her presence did.
Standing in the entryway beside Nathaniel, Clara felt that same annoyance the last time his stepmother was here.
"Good evening," Margaret said pleasantly, stepping inside without waiting to be invited. Her smile was practiced, polite. Her eyes, cold. "We thought we'd drop by. It's been far too long, hasn't it?"
Oh, must we have a reason to visit family?" Margaret asked sweetly, her gaze sliding past him to Clara. "You don't mind, do you, dear?"
Nathaniel's jaw tightened. "Stepmother. Vivian."
Vivian lingered a step behind her mother, one hand tracing the polished railing, amusement already glinting in her pale eyes. She looked like a softer reflection of Margaret—same poise, same smile but with an arrogant edge.
"Oh, don't look so tense," Vivian said lightly. "We were in the area. Mother thought it would be rude not to visit."
Margaret's gaze swept through the hallway before landing on Clara. "You're still here," she said, her tone calm but weighted. "I wasn't sure you'd last this long."
Clara met her eyes and smiled, polite but firm. "Good evening, Mrs. Cross"
"How very proper of you," Margaret murmured, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips. "I thought orphans didn't have manners but you're different."
Clara's fingers twitched at her side, but her voice stayed even. "Thank you."
She could see the smirk on Margaret's face slip for a moment before it returning to her face again.
Nathaniel's hand brushed hers—subtle, grounding. "Why are you here, Margaret?" he asked, voice clipped.
"Must there be a reason?" she replied sweetly. "You're family, Nathaniel. We do miss you."
"I doubt that," he said flatly.
Vivian tilted her head, eyes flicking toward Clara. "Mother's hosting a memorial dinner for Father this weekend. You'll come, right? Everyone's expecting you."
"I won't," Nathaniel said without hesitation.
Vivian's smile widened. "That's disappointing. People will wonder why you're hiding. Or… who you're hiding with."
"Vivian," Nathaniel warned.
"Oh, relax." She gave a careless shrug. "It's just strange seeing you with her. You used to have better taste."
The words hit like a slap, but Clara didn't look away. She'd seen women like Vivian before—the kind who thrived on getting reactions. She wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.
She knew she shouldn't let it get to her but for a moment she thought whether it was really true, is she not Nathaniel's taste.
Nathaniel's tone turned sharp. "That's enough."
Margaret sighed delicately, like she was above all of it. "Really, Nathaniel, there's no need for such hostility. Family should be forgiving." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Don't you agree, Clara?"
"I believe forgiveness should be earned" Clara said quietly.
Margaret's smile faltered, just a little.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The clock in the hall ticked loudly, marking each second that passed. Then Margaret adjusted her gloves and turned toward the door. "Well. It seems we've overstayed our welcome. Do think about the memorial, darling. Appearances matter."
Vivian's gaze flicked to Clara one last time—sharp and assessing, like she was measuring how much of a threat this woman really was—then she swept out, following Margaret, her perfume lingering long after they were gone.
Silence settled again.
Nathaniel stayed at the door, watching the empty driveway. His shoulders were stiff, the muscle in his jaw tight.
Clara hesitated. "They really don't like me."
"They don't like anyone who isn't useful to them," Nathaniel said, his voice low. "Don't take it personally."
"I didn't," she said softly, though part of her did. "Vivian seemed determined to make me uncomfortable."
He turned to her then, his expression softening. "You handled her better than most. You didn't even flinch."
Clara smiled faintly. "I've dealt with worse."
He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded toward the hallway. "Come on. Let's still watch that movie. Don't let them ruin the night."
They made their way to the theatre room, the dim lights flickering across the dark walls. Nathaniel settled beside her, the tension slowly easing from his shoulders as the opening credits rolled.
For a while, it was quiet—comfortable again, almost normal.
But Clara couldn't stop thinking about the way Margaret had looked at her, the way Vivian had smirked like she wasn't worth her time.
She tried to focus on the movie, but her mind drifted back to the old woman in the hospital.
Her father.
And Laura's words, sharp and cold: Be lucky it wasn't you.
A shiver ran through her.
Nathaniel glanced at her. "Cold?"
"A little," she said.
He handed her a blanket, his hand brushing hers for just a second too long. "Better?"
"Better," she murmured.
He smiled faintly and turned back to the screen.
But Clara didn't. Her eyes drifted toward the window across the room, where the reflection of the flickering light danced against the dark glass.
For a split second, she thought she saw movement outside—a shadow near the garden lights.
Her breath caught.
When she blinked, it was gone.
Still, the uneasy feeling stayed, curling deep in her chest.
Someone was watching them.