The things that Malachi had learned from Miriam, growing up with her cold eyes watching over him, were exceedingly few. In spite of this, they were perhaps more prominent than any learned trait from his father.

The arrogant way she stared, her blue eyes twinkling with something that might have been mischief as easily as it might have been malice, raking slowly down the man before her in critical inspection.

The way the corners of her mouth quirked just so, just enough to distinguish that she was smiling at all, but that, too, was far from friendly.

The cruel way in which she lashed, claws out, at anything that dared push her.

And, unfortunately for Arthur: the way she latched onto any perceived slight and let it poison every assumption, every word spoken to her after.

“Doctor Adams,” she said, “do not patronize me.”

“Mother. Please,” Levi urged, his voice dropped to a whisper. “Have your dessert. Do not work yourself up.”

Miriam’s stare burned for several moments after. Then, taking her napkin to set it neatly over her lap, she looked away.

“You’re correct,” her son said, a little louder. He finally turned to his own plate to begin digging into it.

“Father passed several years ago. It has been very hard on her. I try to visit whenever I can, as I know how dreadfully lonely it must be to spend her days alone in this house, but… there is only so much time.”

Slowly, Miriam removed the cake from her fork with her teeth and let it fall onto her tongue. Her eyes darted back to the doctor. After she finished the bite, she leaned forward and whispered, “I want to speak with you. Privately.”