Over the week, Mr. and Mrs. Granger stocked enough daily necessities for seven children; as for food, the villa owner had already stashed it in the cold storage.
On the Saturday of the second week, Mr. and Mrs. Granger took advantage of their day off and drove Lynn and Hermione to the villa.
Behind their car trundled a small delivery truck carrying the supplies—the absolute limit the access road could bear.
Once the car stopped, Lynn followed Hermione out and, without thinking, headed straight for the supply truck.
She scooped up a box that looked impressively heavy and started toward the villa with slightly unsteady steps.
Hermione had just stepped out when the girl behind her vanished; she was glancing around when Lynn emerged from behind the truck hauling the huge box.
Hermione hurried over and grabbed the opposite side of the box to help.
With both of them lifting, Lynn's stride steadied at once.
Hermione had meant to chat, but now she kept silent; the box was a bit too heavy for two girls not yet twelve.
One word, she feared, would break her concentration and send the box—and maybe Lynn—crashing down.
Dropping the box was nothing, but taking Lynn with it would be disastrous.
Lynn, however, looked perfectly calm, as if the box weighed nothing.
Only the veins bulging on her hands and the faint tremor in her arms betrayed how hard she was working.
At the gate in the wall, the door stood open; they passed through, walked a little farther, and finally reached the villa's front door.
Inside, Hermione—face flushed, forehead dripping—gritted her teeth and spoke first.
"Lynn… let's set it down here. This thing's too heavy; I'm about to lose my grip. If I let go, it'll pull you down with it."
Before Lynn could answer, Mrs. Granger hurried out of the living room at the sound of their voices.
She had gone in to check if anything needed tidying and realized the girls weren't behind her.
Assuming Hermione had taken Lynn to look around, and knowing both girls were sensible—and the grounds had been treated for snakes—she hadn't worried.
Now—good heavens—the two girls were lugging a box nearly half their size.
Hermione's face was contorted, sweat pouring off her; Lynn, though still expressionless, was scarlet and drenched.
Mrs. Granger snatched up the box they were sharing and her expression changed.
It really was heavy; even she felt the strain.
She carried it a few steps into the living room, set it out of the way, then straightened and turned to them.
"I thought you two had gone off to play—why are you hauling boxes?"
"There was a box to move; I should help." Lynn's tone was flat.
When someone nearby is working, you show initiative and lend a hand.
That was an unspoken rule, and rules, Lynn's mind declared, must be obeyed.
Hermione, mopping her face with tissues from her pocket, panted, "I saw Lynn moving it alone, so I helped."
She pulled out more tissues and, turning, gently dabbed the sweat from Lynn's face and neck.
The gesture rooted Lynn in place; she couldn't go back out to help while Hermione wiped her face.
Mrs. Granger sighed, stepped forward, smoothed Lynn's hair and pinched her own daughter's cheek.
"You're both good girls—especially you, Lynn."
Hermione stuck out her tongue, balled the used tissues and looked for a bin.
She didn't argue; if anyone was the perfect "good girl," it was Lynn—Hermione couldn't compete.
"But sometimes being too good just breaks my heart."
Mrs. Granger took Lynn's hands and gently massaged the stiffened muscles from carrying the box.
Hermione's brow twitched—not because her mother was pampering Lynn instead of her, but because Lynn went rigid when Hermione also picked up her other hand and began rubbing it carefully.
With both hands claimed, Lynn was officially out of commission for further heavy lifting.
Just then Mr. Granger and the hired mover came in, each balancing two stacked boxes.
The moment Mr. Granger spotted his wife and daughter massaging Lynn's hands, he thought she was hurt and hurried over.
"What happened? Is she injured? Let's get her to hospital—now!"
The mover behind him rushed forward too, ready to help.
Mrs. Granger waved them off. "No, no—Lynn and little Hermione carried that big box in together, and Lynn even carried it alone for a bit. I'm just making sure her hands don't cramp."
"As for Hermione…" she glanced at her daughter and raised an eyebrow—apparently Hermione was jealous of the attention.
Jealous over her own mother—who'd have thought the girl was such a little vinegar jar?
Relieved that nothing was wrong, Mr. Granger looked at the box in the corner.
"Ah, that one! I was wondering where it had gone. I was sure I'd left it right at the front—thought my memory was failing me."
Then it hit him; he stared at the girls. "That's the heaviest box of the lot!"
Hermione had at least shared the load, but Lynn had carried it alone at first—her arms would be sore tomorrow.
Lynn merely nodded; of course she knew it was the heaviest—her brain had registered that at a glance.
That was precisely why she'd chosen it: the heaviest work should be claimed first—that was basic decency.
As soon as the other two released her hands, Lynn turned to head out for more boxes.
But with everyone present, there was no chance they'd let her lift another thing.
Mr. Granger beamed at his daughter. "Hermione, take Lynn off to play—or help your mother organize things."
With that he bent down to Lynn's eye-level. "When there are plenty of men around, letting a lady—or a child—do the lifting makes us look like we've no manners at all. And I'd like to think we're both gentlemen."
Mr. Granger exchanged a look with the young mover, who straightened proudly and thumped his own chest, brimming with confidence.
"I'm a pro—this is literally what I do for a living. Just leave it to me."
"Exactly," Mrs. Granger laughed behind her hand, watching Hermione take Lynn's hand. She rested a gentle palm on each girl's back and steered them toward the living-room. "So you two can help me unpack."
"When you hire a professional, you respect their work. A bit of help is polite; too much interference only gets in the way and shows you don't trust their skill."
Lynn opened her mouth, but no words came. Everything she'd been taught, every rule she knew, suddenly felt upside-down.
Propelled by Mrs. Granger, Lynn stepped into the living-room and, without another word, knelt to slit open a box and began sorting household items with brisk efficiency.
The villa had already been cleaned by the owner's hired crew before they arrived.
So all Lynn and the others had to do was arrange the daily necessities and swap the sheets and duvet covers on the beds.
Watching Lynn change the bedding even more fluidly than she could, Mrs. Granger no longer looked surprised.
Whatever happened with this child now seemed simply inevitable.
She was the perfect "good kid"—self-disciplined, considerate, obedient down to the bone.
Once the boxes were all carried in and the mover paid and sent on his way, Mr. Granger joined the tidying-up.
Four pairs of hands, one of them near-professional in Lynn, finished arranging toiletries, fitting sheets and covers in under forty minutes.
Standing in the now-orderly villa, Lynn stared blankly. Until the new booklist arrived she'd promised Hermione not to think about studying.
So not even a single line of revision or mental simulation should flicker through her head right now.
She had never relaxed on her own initiative; left to herself, she had no idea what to do.
Fortunately it was almost noon. She snapped out of her daze and headed for the kitchen—time to cook.
Mrs. Granger intercepted her, smiling as she rested a hand on Lynn's shoulder. "Go snack with Hermione and explore the villa. After today you girls are on your own for meals, so let me handle this one—deal?"
Lynn gave her a lifeless glance and nodded coolly. "All right. Thanks, Auntie."
Turning, she found Hermione already clutching snacks; a bag of crisps was thrust into Lynn's arms before Hermione towed her toward the rear cold-store.
She'd spotted it earlier—never having been inside a cold-store, she was intrigued.
"Hermione, don't fill up on snacks—it'll be lunch soon," Mrs. Granger called after them.
"Got it, Mum," Hermione replied over her shoulder.
She hooked her arm through Lynn's, tore open her own bag and popped a chip into her mouth with satisfaction.
Lynn looked down at the snack, uncertain. Snacks weren't necessary; eating them would steal study time, so she shouldn't.
Her brain ran the calculation automatically. Hermione, oblivious, simply slipped a crisp between Lynn's lips.
"This brand's really good—try it."
Hermione swallowed and grinned at her.
Lynn nodded, slowly chewing and swallowing.
"Well? Tasty?" Hermione asked hopefully.
"Mm." Lynn answered flatly—a flavour she'd never experienced.
"Have another." Hermione laughed, lifting a second crisp to Lynn's mouth, enjoying the role of feeder.
Lynn parted her lips and took the offered chip, sending Hermione's smile even wider.
At the cold-store door Hermione tugged it open and stepped inside curiously.
Lynn shifted the bag to her left arm, pushed the door fully ajar with her right to keep it from swinging shut, and followed.
The instant she crossed the threshold she began counting seconds in her head; the temperature was well below freezing.
They couldn't stay long or the temperature shock would risk a cold even if they didn't freeze.
She walked over to find Hermione bent, studying a half-side of pork on the shelf.
"Is this... pork?" Hermione asked, unfamiliar with anything larger than a steak.
"Yes," Lynn replied without expression.
"It's huge," Hermione marvelled. "We'd have to cut it up before we could fry it, right?"
Lynn lifted the joint slightly. "Better for braising—spare-ribs or red-braised pork."
"Braising?" Hermione echoed.
"Mm."
"An Eastern method?"
Yes.
Hermione's eyes lit up. So far Lynn had cooked only Western dishes to suit the Grangers; she hadn't attempted Eastern ones.
The mention of Eastern cooking summoned images of dishes she'd only read about, and she nearly drooled.
"Could you make it for me in a couple of days? I'll help!"
Under Hermione's pleading gaze Lynn nodded at once. "All right."
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