Meredith.
Xamira sat cross-legged on the thick carpeted floor, her little notebook sprawled open, her brows furrowed in a way that was far too serious for a seven-year-old.
Her tongue poked from the corner of her mouth as she scribbled out numbers with the short end of a graphite pencil.
I lay beside her on my stomach, chin resting in my palm, watching the way she chewed her lower lip like it was her nemesis.
It made me smile, although quietly.
The room smelled faintly of lavender and the buttery scent of the scones one of the maids had brought earlier. But Xamira hadn't touched hers yet.
"Are you sure this is how you carry the number?" she asked suddenly, holding up the page like it was a declaration of war.
I reached for it. "Let me see."
She scooted closer and nudged the page toward me. Her handwriting was small but neat, slanted slightly to the right, as though even the letters were in a hurry to prove themselves.
