Edward
The Chernyshevsky house in London had never smelled so good, and never been so loud. I was in the kitchen with my fathers and my brother, supposedly "helping" with dinner the night before Connor and I moved into Ashford House.
In the living room, my nephew and niece were shrieking at the top of their lungs while Malia tried to conduct them like a choir.
"Jingle Bells! In July!" Demyan called from the island where he was supposed to be prepping dessert.
"It's festive," Malia yelled back.
At the stove, Dad was stirring something that smelled like it could end wars. Tall, dark hair now long enough to pull into a man bun, sharp jaw, eyes that see right through you.
My namesake.
Next to him, Pa was chopping vegetables. Blonde, softer features, the same cheekbones I got stuck with. If you put us side by side you'd think we were brothers.
And that's when Dad did it.
The sigh.
