The Child Who Refused to Bend

“May I see it?” she asked.

Her voice was soft, but steady.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “You really think you can understand it?”

Maris looked at the manuscript, not at him. “I didn’t say that. I asked if I may see it.”

There was no disrespect in her tone. That somehow made it worse.

Dorian handed over the pages with a smirk. “Go ahead, then. Impress us.”

Lenora whispered, “Maris, honey, you don’t have to—”

“It’s okay, Mama,” the girl said gently. “I want to look.”

She took the manuscript with careful hands and began turning the pages slowly. The room fell quiet except for the faint hum of climate control from the ceiling vents and the distant murmur of city traffic below. Dorian folded his arms and waited for the confusion he was sure would arrive in seconds.

But Maris did not look confused.

She looked focused.

Her eyes moved across the lines, not hurriedly, but with the kind of concentration that comes from familiarity. Once or twice she tilted her head. Once she pressed her lips together as if matching one thought to another. She turned another page. Then another.

Dorian felt a faint irritation stir in his chest.

Finally he said, “Well?”

Maris lifted her gaze.