Inèz
The air in the house smelled like stale lavender and sympathy cards, and I hated it.
I hated the way the neighbors tiptoed across our porch like they were walking on thin ice. I hated the silent, heavy pity that seemed to coat every single surface in our kitchen. But mostly, I hated the fact that no matter how hard I tried to fill the silence, the house just felt empty.
A whole month without her. Thirty days. Four weeks. It felt like both an eternity and a single, suffocating second.
I sat at the island, my bare knees pulled up to my chest, staring down at my leather-bound journal. The pages were warped from dried watercolor and glued-in pastry wrappers, but right now, my pen was hovering uselessly over the paper.
Across from me, Idris was engaged in a full-scale war.
"If you eat that last piece of tarte tatin, I will personally throw your bicycle into the river," I said, not even looking up as his sneaky little twelve-year-old hand crept toward the ceramic plate.
"You're not fast enough to catch me, Inès," Idris shot back, his voice cracking slightly. He possessed the exact same bright ginger hair as me-the same fiery orange we'd both inherited from Mom-and right now, his warm brown eyes were locked onto that slice of caramelized apple pastry like it was the last prize on earth. "Besides, Dad said I needed to eat more. I'm growing."
"You grew two inches this summer, you little parasite. Leave the tart alone."
"Make me."
Before I could lung across the counter, a tired voice broke through our squabble.
"If you two destroy the kitchen before we even pack it into boxes, I'm leaving both of you behind."
Dad walked in, holding a stack of flattened cardboard containers. Armand Delacour looked like a ghost of the man he used to be. The dark circles under his eyes were practically permanent now, and the silver at his temples seemed to have doubled in the last thirty days. But when he looked at us, his expression softened into that familiar, quiet warmth.
"She would be laughing at you two, you know," Dad said softly, setting the boxes down on the table. He didn't have to name her. We all knew who she was. "Your mother used to hide the baked goods in the vegetable crisper just to keep them away from you, Inès."
A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of my lips, though a sharp pang of grief hit my chest right after. "And I always found them."
"Because you have the nose of a bloodhound when it comes to sugar," Idris mumbled, but he slid the plate toward the middle of the counter, magnanimously splitting the remaining piece of tart in half with his finger. "Fine. Half."
I rolled my eyes, but I reached out and took my portion, popping the buttery, sweet crust into my mouth. Food had always been my anchor. When the world felt too big, too loud, or-like lately-too suffocatingly quiet, tasting something real grounded me. It proved I was still here.
Dad leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he watched us. The house around us was half-dismantled. Bubble wrap lined the hallways. Tape guns sat on the coffee table. In less than forty-eight hours, we were leaving France. Leaving the home where Mom had baked, laughed, and lived.
