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My mother, thankfully, ignores the male posturing. “Iris, we’ve heard that you’re an artist,” she says eagerly. “We’d love to see your work.” 

“Oh!” I suddenly remember the package I’ve been clutching. “Actually, I brought something. For both of you.” I hand them the small wrapped canvas. 

My mother carefully removes the paper to reveal the painting I stayed up late finishing–a portrait of Miles playing on the beach. He’s laughing, dark hair windswept and flecked with sea salt. He’s kicking at the water that he’s standing ankle–deep in, and a spray of it is arcing over his head, catching the light of the setting sun. The whole picture looks like it’s shimmering. 

“Iris,” my mother breathes. “This is extraordinary.” 

“The level of detail is remarkable,” my father agrees, peering closely at the canvas. “You’re truly talented.” 

A warm glow spreads through my chest at their praise. “Thank you Art has always been my passion.‘ 

“And it should be,” my mother says firmly. “We’ll have to see about getting you a proper studio here.” 

“Here?” I blink in surprise. 

“Well, of course,” my father says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “This is your home too, Iris. We have more than enough space.” 

Arthur remains silent, but stiffens slightly beside me. We haven’t had a chance to talk about it lately, but there was talk of moving back in with him once my residency is up. 

I can tell he’s not thrilled about the idea of me moving in with my parents, not that he’d stop me if I wanted to. But their home is far outside the city and would put a lot of distance between Arthur and I if I did move in, and I’m not sure if I want that. 

“I–thank you,” I stammer, not quite sure how to respond. “But I have my apartment, and my residency at the Abbott Gallery…” “The space is here for visits or if you decide you want to live here,” my mother assures me. “And as for Miles, we’ve prepared a suite and a nanny for him here as well, just in case. Our nanny is specially trained with children on the spectrum, so you don’t need to worry.” 

My eyes widen. I look at Arthur, but he looks just as dumbfounded as I am. “How… How did you know?” I ask. 

My mother’s expression softens. “My brother–your uncle Thomas–was autistic,” she says gently. “He passed away a few years ago, but I grew up with him. I know the signs.” 

I’m at a loss for words. They’re accepting Miles–something that so many people have refused to do before. Arthur’s parents have already made it perfectly clear that Miles‘ differences are a burden, something to be fixed. 

The very thought that Miles finally has a family that accepts him brings tears of joy to my eyes. 

The conversation flows easily after that. They tell me about my family history–apparently, my great–great–great grandmother was the first Supreme Judge of Ordan. My grandfather was a decorated veteran. They show me family albums full of pictures. They ask countless questions about my life, my interests, my hopes for the future. 

Through it all, Arthur sits quietly beside me, offering the occasional word or nod but not saying much other than that. I can tell he’s slightly uncomfortable. They all are; my father often looks at Arthur with obvious distrust, and my mother seems to be actively avoiding eye contact with him. 

After what feels like hours, my parents exchange meaningful look. 

“Iris,” my father says. “We’ve been discussing your public debut as a Willford.” 

My throat bobs. I knew this was coming. 

“Now, you’re perfect the way you are, 

but 

your introduction to society is very important,” my mother explains. “As our 

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daughter and heir to the Willford estate, it needs to be handled carefully.” She gives Arthur a meaningful look, as if to silently say that he didn’t exactly do a tang–up job of helping me with my initial debut as his mate. “We think a ball here at the estate would be perfect.” 

“A… ball?” 

“We’ve already started making arrangements,” my father adds. though of course, there’s still much to do. You’ll need more training first–proper etiquette, a custom gown for your debut…” 

My mother grins. “And dance lessons.” 

مودي