Goodness. If I didn’t know better, Jennie, I’d think you suffer from club foot.” Aunt Clara doesn’t take her eyes off her toast. Her delicate jet earrings tremble as her knife scratches at the toast like a cat’s paw, buttering every inch. Strange how even the most mundane habits of dislikable people can strike such harsh chords. I even hate the way Aunt butters.

“I’m sorry, Aunt.” I tiptoe to my chair. It’s all I can do to keep up a pretense of normalcy. The idea of food and polite conversation is very nearly unendurable.

Will is gone. Will is gone.

“Don’t be sorry to me. It’s Quinn you’ll wake.” Her eyes are silver, like a wolf. They are Quinn’s eyes, but cruel.

“He’s already awake,” I return. “I took him some blooms from the garden.” I unfold my napkin as Mrs. Sullivan bustles through the dining room with the sausage and eggs and offers the tray to Uncle Henry. The yolks of the eggs glare at me. I swallow the bile in the back of my throat.

“Perchance your billy goat’s trot is even more effective than Hannibal’s wake-up call.” Aunt poses it as a witticism, but I feel the lash of her thought. I’ve never been Aunt Clara’s ideal specimen of niece, with my flat feet and too-curly black hair and wide-lipped laugh though there’s been no reason for laughter these past months, and certainly not this morning.