Father stood silent for a long moment, his hand resting on the door frame as if he needed the support. The afternoon light had shifted, casting longer shadows across the kitchen floor, and in that half-light his face looked older than his fifty-three years.
"A rose," he said again, more to himself than to us.
There was something in his tone that made the hair on the back of my neck prickle—not fear, exactly, but a kind of premonition. The way people talk about feeling the change in air pressure before a storm hits. I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd said something important without meaning to, something that carried more weight than a simple request for a flower should.
"It's really not necessary," I said, suddenly wanting to take the words back. "I was just being fanciful."
But Father shook his head, a strange kind of resolve settling over his features. "No. You're right. We should have something beautiful. Something to remind us..." He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Remind us of what? I wanted to ask. Of what we've lost? Of what we're trying to preserve? Of who we used to be?
Instead, I busied myself folding Jamie's mended coat, smoothing the fabric with careful attention. The kitchen felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing closer as if the house itself was holding its breath.
"Will you really bring me a rose, Daddy?" Jamie asked, abandoning his toy soldier to approach Father with the kind of hopeful excitement that could break a person's heart. "A real one?"
"I'll try," Father said, his voice rough around the edges. "If I can find one."
The way he said it made it sound less like a simple purchase and more like a quest—the kind of impossible task from the fairy tales Mother used to read to us before bedtime. Find the perfect rose, save the family, live happily ever after.
Except this wasn't a fairy tale, and roses didn't solve financial ruin.
"You'd better go," I said, glancing toward the window where the afternoon light was already beginning to fade. "If you want to be back before dark."
Father nodded, but didn't immediately move. He seemed to be wrestling with something, some internal debate that played out across his features in subtle shifts of expression.
"Catherine," he said finally. "When we get to Ravenwood... things will be different. Harder. You understand that, don't you?"
Harder. As if our current situation was some kind of rehearsal for the real difficulties to come. As if losing our home, our money, our social standing, our entire way of life was just the opening act.
"I understand," I said, though I wasn't sure I really did. How much harder could things get?
"Good." He straightened his shoulders, the gesture of a man preparing to face an unpleasant task. "I'll be back by sunset. Keep the doors locked while I'm gone."
Keep the doors locked. Another new reality to file away. We'd never worried about security in London—not in our neighborhood, with our servants, our assumptions of safety. Now we were the kind of people who had to think about locked doors and unsafe roads.
After Father left, the kitchen felt too quiet. Jamie returned to his soldier game, but with less enthusiasm than before. The one-armed captain's adventures had lost some of their appeal, perhaps because the real world had started to intrude on his imagination.
I made tea with the last of the good leaves—not because we needed it, but because the ritual felt comforting. The familiar motions of heating water, measuring leaves, waiting for the perfect steeping time. Small acts of normalcy in a world that had tilted sideways.
"Cat?" Jamie's voice was smaller now, more uncertain.
"Yes?"
"Are we poor now?"
The question hung in the air like smoke. I could have deflected it, the way adults usually did when children asked uncomfortable questions. Could have talked about temporary setbacks and new adventures and all the other euphemisms we'd been using to avoid naming our reality.
Instead, I set down my teacup and looked at him directly. "Yes," I said. "We are."
He nodded solemnly, as if he'd suspected as much but needed confirmation. "Will we be poor in Ravenwood too?"
"Probably."
Another nod. "Will you still take care of me?"
The question was like a knife between my ribs—sharp and unexpected and devastating in its simplicity. As if eight years of life had already taught him that security was conditional, that love might not survive hardship.
"Always," I said, and meant it with every fiber of my being. "No matter what happens, no matter where we go, I will always take care of you."
He smiled then, the first genuine smile I'd seen from him in days. "Good. Because I'll take care of you too."
Out of the mouths of babes. Mother's voice echoed in my memory, one of her favorite expressions for moments when Jamie's childish wisdom cut straight to the heart of things.
As the afternoon wore on, I found myself thinking about Father's reaction to my rose request. The way his face had changed, the strange quality in his voice. It was probably nothing—just the stress of the day, the weight of having to sell away the last remnants of our former life.
But something nagged at me, some instinct I couldn't quite name. The feeling that my innocent request for a flower had set something in motion, something that couldn't be called back.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows with increasing insistence. Storm weather, the kind that made you grateful for solid walls and locked doors.
I hoped Father would remember to hurry home.