Fiona
Archie found me in the kitchen later than usual that evening, a soft, easy contentment settled over him that I recognized more and more as the weeks passed, the particular lightness he carried whenever he'd spent the day thinking about Fiona, unaware that the woman pouring his tea was the very same source of that happiness.
"Can I ask you something, Thea?" he said, settling into his usual chair. "About Fiona, as a child. What was she like?"
My stomach tightened, though I kept my expression carefully warm, reaching for the memory bank of my own childhood, ready to translate it carefully into the third person, into stories about a daughter rather than confessions about myself.
"She was curious," I said slowly. "Always asking questions, about everything. I remember she went through
