Page 116 of Cruel King

CHAPTERFORTY-FOUR

Ava

Six YearsLater

The sound of a little boy making a mess downstairs travels up to where I sit on the edge of the bed trying to dress a very squirmy one-year-old who doesn’t want to wear clothes today. Actually, it’s every day lately. It must be a faze.

“Elizabeth, Mommy needs to get this dress over your head, honey. We’re going to miss all the fun at the carnival if we don’t hurry.”

My daughter stops for a few seconds, as if to decide if she cares about our outing we’ve planned for today, and then sticks her arms up in the air, finally willing to cooperate. “Carnmal,” she says with a smile.

“Yes, we’re going to the carnival. We need to get everyone together first, though.”

Now that she’s actually wearing clothes, I sit her up on the bed and slip her shoes on. Oddly enough, she doesn’t fight me with those at all. She must love shoes like Eden.

“Carnmal!” she screams before jutting her arms out in front of her. “Up, mama.”

I do as she demands and pick her up before heading downstairs to find the rest of my family. When I reach the kitchen, I see Eleanor entertaining my four-year-old son Matty as he shovels a bowl of cereal into his mouth using what looks like a serving spoon.

When I notice, she sheepishly says, “He insisted that he needed a big spoon so he could get finished quicker. I think someone is excited about the outing today.”

I wave off her concern and then turn my attention back to him to see milk and half-chewed pieces of cereal down the front of his shirt he just put on less than half an hour ago. “Matthias Joseph King! You need to get back up to your room and change your shirt. It’s covered in food.”

He looks up at me with innocence in his dark eyes like he can’t understand why I’m upset. With a mouth full of food, he says, “Mommy, we’re going to the carnival!”

“Not dressed like that. Now get back upstairs and change your shirt, or we won’t go anywhere. I’ll have your father take your brother, and that will be that for you.”

The threat of his older brother getting something he won’t is enough to make him take off like a shot out of the kitchen, and a few seconds later, I hear him running up the stairs to do as I said. Eleanor smiles at me as she begins to clean up where Matty had been sitting, wiping the table and the floor underneath of milk and cereal.

“He reminds me so much of Theo when he was that age. You know that?” she says as she walks over to the closet to get the mop.

I nod, remembering how he always made a mess when he ate when we were very young. “It’s odd. He’s named after his father, but he’s nothing like him.”

“Second child syndrome,” she says definitively. “Always in such a hurry to prove themselves. That’s why your threat of his brother going today and not him worked.”

I’m not sure if this is a real syndrome or just something Eleanor has decided is what my middle child has, but now that I think of it, his uncle always had a way of having to compete about him. My son is like him in other ways too, strangely enough. Always wearing a smile, Matty loves to play jokes on people. And if he’s awake, he’s more than likely laughing.

So much like his uncle.

Matty reappears before us wearing a clean shirt and a huge smile. “Ready for the carnival!”

He takes my hand to pull me toward the door, so I say to Eleanor, “I guess I’m leaving now.”

“Have a good time!”

“Mommy, come on,” Matty whines. “We have to go, or we’ll miss the carnival.”

In my arms, my daughter offers her opinion too. “Carnmal!”

“We need to make one stop before we can go. Who can get to the art house first?” I ask, a challenge to my son to race me down to the carriage house.

He takes off out the kitchen door with me following behind carrying his sister, running full speed toward my old house that’s now my husband’s art studio. Once I formally moved into the main house with Matthias, the house sat empty since he never wanted to hire an estate manager like his father had. One day, he walked down to the carriage house and started sketching. A week later, he announced that it would be the art house from then on.

Now whenever work gets too much for him or he can carve out some time for himself, he walks down there and enjoys his art. He’s never been happier since he finally has a dedicated place to draw, and it warms my heart to know he spends time in the home I grew up in.

Since my legs are much longer than a four-year-old boy’s, I quickly catch up to Matty on the lawn. Giggling the entire way, he squeals, “I’m going to get there first!”

His sister bounces in my hold, as excited as her brother to reach the art house. Neither of them is ever allowed there alone, so whenever we visit, it’s a real treat.