Aria's POV
The photographer arrived at ten, which meant the household had been in productive chaos since eight-thirty.
Noah, now nine years old and possessed of opinions about everything, had vetoed three outfit combinations before arriving at the navy suit he'd chosen himself — which I suspected had been his plan all along. He was sitting at the kitchen island eating toast with the focused calm of a person who had done his preparation and was now conserving energy, occasionally offering unsolicited commentary on everyone else's progress.
"Emma, your bow is crooked," he said.
Emma, who was now Nig and had opinions of her own and was not interested in receiving feedback about them, turned from where she was standing on the footstool at the hallway mirror and fixed her brother with a look that bore, the same quality of Damien's boardroom stare at its most withering.
"I know," she said, with tremendous dignity, and adjusted it herself.
Noah considered this. "It's still a little"
