3. Winnie
WINNIE
The man staring at me looked profoundly tired.
I recognized the exhaustion immediately. It was the kind that was built slowly over years rather than in a few sleepless nights with young kids. It settled into one’s posture and lived behind the eyes and taught a person how to fake a smile while actively drowning.
He was also handsome, which was an annoying distraction.
Tall. Broad through the shoulders. Dark hair that looked slightly unruly in a way suggesting he’d attempted to tame it recently and failed.
His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms as though he’d been too restless to leave them alone.
There was tension in him everywhere. In the line of his mouth.
The set of his jaw. Even the way he held the front door open seemed strained by effort.
Then there were the children clustered behind him.
Ah. There they were. The little revolutionaries.
The youngest gasped at me as though I’d risen directly from the underworld for her personal entertainment.
“Oh my god,” she whispered.
I liked her immediately.
Mr. Lawrence closed his eyes briefly, which told me that reaction was probably not ideal by his standards.
“Billie,” he said.
“What?” she asked. “She looks incredible.”
The boy elbowed her lightly without taking his eyes off me. Dark curls fell across his forehead, and the smile forming on his face told me this child was far too skilled at social navigation for his age. Charming children were often unpredictable. Charming, grieving children even more so.
The older girl beside him was still and watchful, and she clutched a book against her chest as her gaze tracked over me. My hat. My gloves. The shape of the parasol handle. The seam of my coat.
This was an analytical child, an emotional compartmentalizer. I had met many of her over the decades. They were usually the easiest to overlook and the hardest to truly fool.
Hmm. Interesting family with an interesting sadness.
I removed my sunglasses and let my eyes adjust to the dimness inside the foyer. Immediately, all three children gaped at me. The youngest leaned toward her brother and whispered with absolutely no discretion whatsoever, “Her eyes are cooler than ours.”
“Everything about her is cooler than us.”
The father already looked deeply exhausted by all of us. “I apologize,” he said quickly. “They?—”
“Are children?” I offered.
His mouth twitched. “Yes,” he said. “Very much so.”
The little girl beamed proudly, as though this were a major accomplishment.
I let my gaze move between them more carefully now.
The boy stood closest to his father, as if his instinct was to protect. He had an adaptive personality and social intelligence. I could feel it in the way he watched reactions before speaking, assembling versions of himself depending on what was required.
The eldest daughter had her grief tucked in under the guise of control, her keen eyes always observing. Her cardigan was buttoned too neatly, and her expression was too composed for someone so young. She was the kind of child who would prefer information over vulnerability every time.
And the smallest one?—
She was adorable with curly blonde hair, big blue eyes, and pale skin.
She looked up at me with an untamed curiosity.
I could tell she moved without enough fear.
Climbed too close to the edges, emotionally and physically.
She was testing boundaries, which explained the flour.
She’d lost her mother at such a young age, and now, without realizing it, tried to fill the void with misbehavior.
Poor little thing.
Poor all of them.
“Miss Carrington,” Mr. Lawrence said.
“Winnie is perfectly acceptable.”
He looked momentarily thrown by that, then he stepped inside. “Right. Of course. Please come in.”
I folded my parasol before crossing the threshold.
The house smelled faintly of pancakes and lemon cleaner.
The foyer was beautiful, though slightly oppressive like large homes often were.
I took in the expensive millwork and tall ceilings, noting all the empty space between objects.
It was a house built for impressive dinner parties.
Homes reflected the people who occupied them. This one looked maintained rather than lived-in, except for the children. They had left evidence of themselves everywhere.
An abandoned shoe lay beneath the staircase, and the banister was covered in fingerprints. Books spilled from the doorway in the sitting room. There was also something sticky on the wall that Mr. Lawrence had either not noticed or intentionally stopped acknowledging for the sake of his own sanity.
He gestured toward the hall. “I thought I’d start with a tour of the house. Then we’ll discuss expectations, schedules, technology, all of that.”
Technology. My greatest modern enemy besides automatic flushing toilets.
“That sounds lovely.”
“What’s your hat made of?” the little girl asked.
“Billie,” the girl beside her hissed.
“What? It’s a normal question.”
“It’s velvet,” I said.
Billie inhaled dramatically. “I knew it.”
The boy stepped forward and offered me his hand. “I’m Conrad Jr., but everyone calls me CJ.”
I shook his hand. “A pleasure.”
He grinned immediately, clearly pleased I had taken him seriously. Children appreciated respect far more than adults gave them credit for.
The older daughter remained where she was. After a moment, she said, “Bianca.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
Her expression shifted almost imperceptibly—suspicion mixed with embarrassment.
Mr. Lawrence looked between us, probably waiting for disaster. Poor man. He had the posture of someone perpetually bracing for impact.
“I wanted to reiterate,” he said as he led me deeper into the house, “that the children are at school during the day, so we mostly need your help in the mornings and afternoons into the evening.”
“Yes, you mentioned that on the phone.” The poor man was trying to sell me on the position.
“While they’re at school, you’re welcome to use one of the upstairs rooms as an office or workspace.” He hesitated. “Or a temporary bedroom if needed between shifts.”
The children all looked at me now, curiosity shining on their faces.
Oh dear. This was the part where I tried to turn down a kind offer without giving any indication that I wasn’t human.
“I appreciate the offer,” I said gently. “But I already have accommodations.”
Which was technically true. Though, admittedly, “accommodations” sounded considerably more dignified than an extremely customized hearse with blackout windows parked discreetly beneath tree cover, where I intended to spend daylight hours inside a casket.
Once the children left for school each morning, I would retreat to the vehicle, inter myself for the day, then emerge before they arrived home from school. It certainly wasn’t glamorous, but it was effective.
Mr. Lawrence nodded, though confusion flickered across his face. “You’ll commute each day?”
“Yes.”
Billie tugged on my sleeve. “Do you live in a castle?”
Bianca scrunched her face in visible secondhand embarrassment.
“No,” I said.
“A haunted castle?” she guessed again.
“Billie,” Mr. Lawrence said tiredly.
“What? Some people live in castles.”
“Miss Carrington does not,” he said.
I tilted my head as I looked at the little girl. “Not currently.”
Billie gasped again, and her father looked alarmed. CJ, however, looked thoroughly entertained.
We continued through the house as Mr. Lawrence explained routines, school schedules, food preferences, emergency contacts, allergies, pickup procedures, and household systems. He was trying desperately not to appear desperate.
Unfortunately for him, I had met desperate people before.
Desperation often wore competence very convincingly. He spoke clearly and thoughtfully, but every few minutes, his gaze drifted unconsciously toward the children, as though to check they were still emotionally and physically intact. That told me far more than his words did.
The children followed behind us, CJ and Bianca observing my every movement.
Billie was the only one who paid less attention to me and more to her surroundings.
She touched nearly everything she passed.
At one point, she picked up a decorative brass bird from a side table and asked, “If I swallowed this, would I die?”
“Billie,” her father said immediately.
“What? Hypothetically.”
“No,” I answered calmly. “But it would mean an inconvenient hospital visit.”
She nodded thoughtfully and put it back.
“Impressive vocabulary, young lady,” I added quickly.
Billie beamed. I had to stop myself from smiling, because Mr. Lawrence looked one minor incident away from a stress-induced collapse.
We eventually reached the kitchen, where tall windows sat over polished counters, and evidence of pancake batter still lingered near the sink.
Mr. Lawrence stopped near the island. “This is usually the busiest area, especially in the mornings.”
“I gathered.”
His eyes followed mine toward the flour residue still clinging to the vent above the stove. Color rose slightly in his face. Oh, he embarrassed easily.
“There was an incident,” he said. “You might remember me mentioning it over the phone.”
I nodded and forced myself to avert my eyes.
Billie climbed onto a stool. “It was weather-related.”
“Mm.”
“In our defense,” CJ said, leaning against the counter, “we did learn important lessons.”
“Did you?”
“Yes,” he said seriously. “Airflow matters.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling too obviously.
Mr. Lawrence looked at me then. Really looked at me for the first time since opening the door, probably assessing whether I was already planning my escape route. I calmly met his gaze.
Most people underestimated how obvious loneliness was. But I’d lived long enough to recognize it. This house was full of it. The children carried theirs loudly while Mr. Lawrence carried his quietly.