Chapter 6
A Mother's Fear
Lilly's mother senses her daughter's growing involvement and tries to dissuade her, her fear palpable. She hints at past tragedies and dangers lurking outside their sheltered life, her protectiveness bordering on desperation.
The scent of lavender and old paper always clung to Lilly’s mother, a comforting aroma that had soothed Lilly since childhood. But tonight, the scent was tinged with something sharp, like the tang of ozone before a storm, and the familiar lines of her mother’s face seemed etched deeper, shadowed by a worry that had nothing to do with spilled milk or scraped knees. Lilly sat at the worn kitchen table, the remnants of supper – a half-eaten apple, a scattering of crumbs – a stark contrast to the tension that hummed between them.
“You’re quiet tonight, Lily-flower,” her mother said, her voice a soft melody that usually held a lilt of amusement. Tonight, it was a low hum, a tremor beneath the surface. She was meticulously folding napkins, her movements precise, almost frantic.
Lilly traced the grain of the wood with her fingertip. “Just thinking.”
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