All is Fair in Love and War

19

August brought ripe apples; soft blackberries that stained our fingers purple for days; bright yellow ears of corn in the fields; fragrant flowers; and my birthday.

I spent the weekend with my parents in Boston, and the children were ecstatic to see me. They were all brimming with questions about my adventures and about Connor and the homestead. I was happy to divulge and answer them, though I avoided mentioning Johnson and the portraits in the basement.

I awoke at dawn on the morning of my birthday, unable to escape the habits of the manor. Connor and I usually woke around this hour to run, and now, as I lay in bed, I itched to get out and stretch my legs. However, I knew that my parents wouldn't approve if they were to come in and find my bed empty, so, twitching my toes restlessly, I reached over to my nightstand and picked up Voltaire's book. It was Le Taureau Blanc, published last year. I had been taught French by my grandparents, but I had little opportunity to speak it (save for the odd conversation with Norris on the homestead) so this book helped to sharpen my fluency.

Connor thought French sounded strange, but I had to remind him that his language had only very recently been translated to a written alphabet. French missionaries had devised a spelling system at the beginning of the century, so really, I told him, his people and the French weren't so different after all. Whenever I brought this up with him, he whacked me across the head and told me to shut up.

I lay there for quite some time, reading by the light of the rising sun that was slowly creeping through my drawn curtains. Every so often I would come across a French word I didn't know, and I marked it with a bit of charcoal so I could ask Chapheau or Norris about it.

When I heard a scuffling in the hall outside my door, I smiled to myself. Every year my parents played this game with my siblings, and even though Meredith considered herself too old for toys, she still liked to partake in this game. The handle on the door slowly began to turn–

"Go!" cried Lydia, and Nadia, who had opened the door, leapt aside as the other four came barrelling through the narrow doorway in a race to see who could kiss me first. It was always Gabriel. While he loved his children dearly, he was never one to let them off without some healthy competition.

I dropped my book and laughed as he reached me first on his long, slender legs, and planted a loud kiss on the top of my head. Lydia was constantly trying to feed him up, but no matter how many generously buttered scones he put away, he remained spare and angular. All elbows and knees, Lydia said.

The order in which they got to me was always the same: Gabriel first; followed by Meredith who, like her father, refused to just let people win; then Ryan, tumbling in with his messy bed hair and a smile splitting his ruddy cheeks; and lastly Lydia, who always let the children get to me first.

"Happy birthday, Sassy!" little Ryan yelped as he launched himself onto my bed to hug me.

I caught myself just before I said, You too, dear, and grinned. "Thank you, darling."

Lydia leaned down to kiss my head like Gabriel had. "Do you know how old she is?"

Ryan's face went serious as he began to count on his fingers. When he ran out of fingers, he looked around for something else to count, and when we didn't offer our own hands, he looked down at his bare feet and began to count his toes.

He seemed to have forgotten what he was counting them for, because he got up to twenty and grinned in triumph.

I huffed. "I'm not that old."