Would that be all right? Would that be a help? Meera studied her with those enormous blue eyes, her father's eyes, weighing Eliza's words with the gravity of a much older person. Finally, she nodded. I guess that would be all right.
But I'm still going to miss Mama. Of course you are, Eliza said. You should miss her. Missing her means you loved her. And love doesn't stop just because someone's gone.
Really? Really? Meera sat up, wiping her nose on her night gown sleeve in a way that suggested she'd been missing maternal guidance for longer than 16 months. "Are you going to make breakfast? " "James always burns it. " "I was in the middle of making eggs when I came up here," Eliza said, pushing herself to her feet with a slight groan. "Would you like to help me finish? " The little girl's face brightened immediately.
Mama used to let me crack eggs. I'm very good at it. Well, mostly good at it. Sometimes the shells get in there, but P says that's just extra crunch. Eliza held out her hand, and after only a moment's hesitation, Meera took it.
Her small fingers were warm and slightly sticky, her grip surprisingly strong. Together they descended the stairs and returned to the kitchen, where the boys had apparently negotiated a temporary truce in their absence. Matthew had returned with the water, though he'd slopped a good amount of it across the floor in the process. James had managed to scrape the burned remnants from the pans and was making a half-hearted attempt at setting the table properly. Levi remained at his post by the window, and Nathaniel was trying to fold napkins into elaborate shapes with more ambition than skill.
Mirror's going to help me finish breakfast, Eliza announced, guiding the little girl to a stool beside the stove. The rest of you, go get dressed properly. Breakfast will be ready in 15 minutes. You can't tell us what to do, Matthew said. But there was less conviction in it now.
More wrote recitation of an expected response. You're right. I can't force you to do anything, Eliza agreed pleasantly, pouring the whisked eggs into a heated pan sllicked with butter. But I can choose not to serve breakfast to anyone who comes to the table in their nightclo. House rules apply to everyone equally, or they don't apply at all.
James' mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something that might become one eventually. Come on, he told his brothers. You heard her, and you know P would say the same thing. The boys trooped out, leaving Eliza alone with Meera and the steadily cooking eggs.
The little girl proved to be surprisingly capable in the kitchen, directing Eliza to the right cupboards for plates and the right drawer for utensils, chattering all the while about how her mother used to organize things and why everything was where it was. And this spoon, Meera said, holding up a wooden spoon worn smooth with use. This was Mama's favorite for stirring stew. She said it was lucky because grandma gave it to her when she married P, and it had never broken or burned, no matter how many pots of stew she made. Eliza took the spoon carefully, feeling the weight of it, the history embedded in its smooth wood.