Celia put the principal chair at the side of the table.
Elna Ashford watched with her lips pressed together.
“Your father sat at the head.”
“My father could reach the serving dishes from there,” Celia said. “The table has changed.”
“The meaning hasn’t.”
“The soup will get cold while we settle it.”
Lyra removed her gloves before she could be asked to choose a side in a dispute about furniture.
Celia’s dining room was smaller than Balthazar’s. Its windows faced a narrow garden, and the silver had been polished without pretending the worn pieces matched. A repaired leg beneath the sideboard rested on a square of dark wood.
