“You’re the new cook,” Ethan said. He made it sound like an accusation.
“I am.” Clara kept her voice gentle but steady, refusing to apologize for existing. “My name is Mrs. Whitfield. You can call me Clara, if you like.”
“We don’t like,” Ethan said flatly. “You’re the help. You get a title. Same as the hands.”
“Ethan.” Luke’s voice came from behind them, sharp with warning. He’d appeared in the doorway without Clara noticing, hat in his hands, dust on his shoulders. “Mind your manners.”
“Yes, sir,” Ethan answered. The words were correct. The tone carried defiance like a hidden blade.
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