It was Saturday noon, and Ruelle sat at the worn wooden table, a warm bowl of stew in front of her. The smell of herbs and broth filled the small kitchen, mingling with the sound of Hailey's mother, Mrs. Sylvie Elliot, bustling around, setting more bread on the table. The kitchen was modest, the chairs worn, but there was a kind of quiet comfort in its simplicity.
Across from her, Mr. Elliot leaned back in his chair, his large frame making the chair creak under his weight. His boots were still dirt-streaked from the fields, and his hands, rough with calluses, rested on the table. His voice, when it came, was a low rumble that filled the room like distant thunder.
"Pass the bread, love," he said to Mrs. Elliot before turning to Ruelle, his sharp gaze softening as it settled on her. "You girls need to eat more," he said, his gruff voice carrying a note of warmth. "You've got those tests comin' up at that academy of yours, don't you?"
