Later that morning, I moved through the dining room carrying a tray of steaming plates. The light from the windows made the silverware flash, and the smell of fresh bread and strong coffee mixed with the tang of orange marmalade. Ansel sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, that calm look he wore when nothing could rattle him. When I set his plate down he reached up and brushed his fingers along the back of my thigh. The contact was small and electric.
“How are you this morning?” he asked, his voice low.
I glanced toward the far end of the table where Luna Claire was talking quietly with Joseph. They seemed deep in some argument or gossip, heads close together. I leaned toward Ansel and said, “I’m fine. Thank you for letting me stay last night.” My voice sounded smaller than I
