The apartment was not large, but it was flooded with morning light and smelled of chamomile and old paper and a faint sweetness of cinnamon — everything the Greenwich estate was not.

It felt alive.

On the small wooden table the gold trophy sat proudly between two velvet medal boxes, and in an alcove Hugo and Atticus were at a shared desk with their textbooks open.

When I came in, both boys stood at once, their posture straight, their faces neutral, watching me with the guarded curiosity you’d give a repairman.

“Sit,” Coraline said, gesturing to a plain wooden chair, then softening as she turned to them.

“Hugo, Atticus, give us a little while.