Vera

The first rule Vera had learned as a mother was this:

Children listened even when you believed they weren’t.

The second was worse.

They understood far more than you wanted them to.

Vanessa sat at the long breakfast table in the east wing, her small legs swinging beneath the carved oak chair, humming softly to herself as she stirred honey into her milk. The morning light streamed through tall windows, gilding her black hair and catching on the white streak at the front—the ...