Then she looked up, directly into my eyes — and she saw that I already knew.
I watched it happen.
I watched ten years of gentle maternal warmth fall off her face like a mask coming loose, and for the first time I saw what had been underneath it the whole time, and it was cold, and it was frightened, and it was not the face of anyone’s mother.
She stammered something about the tea being too hot for a child.
Lucien reached over and touched the side of the mug and found it barely warm.
I changed the subject fast, made it light, defused the whole moment — because I could not afford a confrontation yet.