Chapter 11: Sunday Dinner

"Moth," I said carefully. "That's a pretty name."

"Bowen thought so."

"Is she still singing?"

"Every Sunday." He said it low, into my hair. "I don't know who she is. I've never asked."

I lay in the dark with my cheek against his chest and understood that he was lying to me, and that he was lying beautifully.

Every Sunday.

He did not say, "I listen too." He did not say, "I talk to her at night."

I did not say it either.

We stayed like that until his phone buzzed on my desk.

He read a message from Teagan, frowned and turned the screen face down.

"My mother wants you at dinner on Sunday," he said.

"Your mother?"

"She heard what you said at the Founders' Dinner. She wants to meet the girl who talked back to my father."

"And your father?"

"In the city until Monday."

I thought about it for a long second.

"I'll bring pie," I said.

The Hargrove dining room had a table for twelve and four places set.

The chandelier was low and a fire burned in the stone hearth.

A roast sat on the sideboard, and the room smelled like rosemary and old money and something sad.

Drake's mother met us at the door.

She was small, with soft gray eyes and silver threaded through her dark hair.

She wore a cardigan and no jewelry.

She took both my hands before I could say hello.

"Maisy," she said. "Thank you for coming. I've been wanting to meet you since Friday."

"Thank you for having me."

She smiled, and her eyes were wet.

"I'm sorry. I get emotional. Come in, come in."

I handed her the pie, and she pressed it to her chest.

The meal was warm.

I had expected silver and silence.

Instead she asked about my mother's shifts and my choir, and she laughed at the story of the substitute and the beaker.

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