At seven exactly, she heard them.
Footsteps on the stairs, cautious and measured. A whisper quickly hushed. The creak of floorboards in the hall, as if the house itself were trying not to draw attention.
Then they appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Six children arranged by height like a set of stair steps, all staring at her with a weary, assessing intensity. The oldest boy stood in front, shoulders squared as if ready for a fight. He had his father’s dark hair and gray eyes, but where Luke’s face held emptiness, the boy’s face held something fiercer: anger carefully banked.
Behind him came Lily, twelve years old and balanced on the knife-edge between child and woman. Her hair was braided, her hands clasped tight, and her eyes were bright blue, though shadowed by something too old for her age. The twins, Noah and Nora, stood close together, blond and freckled and watchful in the way of children who had learned not to take up too much space. Maggie clung to Rosie’s hand, the six-year-old’s gap-toothed mouth set with determination while the smallest girl stared with enormous brown eyes that looked like they had been taught to expect disappointment.
