Clara’s heart sank slightly.
“My mother was married.”
“Yes.”
“My father…”
“Was controlling.”
“That does not make infidelity noble.”
“No.”
Silas’s calm answer surprised her.
Clara waited.
He continued.
“I also think people can love badly.”
“Or love someone they should not.”
“That doesn't make every choice right.”
Clara looked at journal.
There it was again.
No simple heroes.
No simple villains except perhaps Price, and even Clara suspected a full life existed behind his greed.
Her mother could be brave and secretive.
Her father could once have loved Eleanor and later harmed her.
Jonathan could protect land and perhaps cross a line.
Silas could file a notice that endangered Clara and still believe he was respecting her agency.
The world was becoming less clean.
Strangely, Clara trusted it more that way.
A week later, the first snow melted enough for Clara to return to Silver Spring.
The cabin looked different in daylight.
Smaller somehow.
Yet still enormous compared with Baltimore rooms.
Silas carried her trunk inside.
Clara noticed the bed again.
Reinforced center beam.
Extra-wide frame.
She touched the post.
“My mother really requested this?”
“Not this exact bed.”
“Father replaced original.”
“But dimensions came from her.”
Clara laughed.
“She designed furniture for unborn child.”
“She designed furniture for possibility.”
“What does that mean?”
Silas placed trunk down.
“She wrote that nobody should build a house assuming only one kind of body would live there.”
Clara went quiet.
Her mother had understood something Clara herself had not been able to articulate.
Architecture could insult.
A narrow chair could tell a person they were not expected.
A fragile bed could turn rest into fear.
A doorway could become accusation.
Eleanor had built differently.
Clara touched the wood.
“I want to rebuild the lower house.”
Silas looked up.
“What lower house?”
“The abandoned ranch house.”
“It’s nearly collapsed.”
“Then rebuild.”
“For whom?”
“I don't know yet.”
He looked suspicious.
“That sounds expensive.”
“I have four thousand acres.”
“That is land.”
“Not cash.”
“Do not become my accountant.”
“I would rather eat nails.”
Clara smiled.
“I want a house where people don't have to apologize for fitting.”
Silas stared.
“Wide doors.”
“Yes.”
“Strong floors.”
“Yes.”
“Lower shelves?”
“Yes.”
“Ramps.”
Clara frowned.
“For wagons?”
“For anyone who needs them.”
She looked at him.
He shrugged.
“My father’s knee went bad.”
“Stairs were misery.”
Clara’s heart warmed.
“Ramps.”
“Good.”
She opened the journal.
Her mother had drawn rough plans.
Not complete.
But enough.
Clara spent winter developing them.
Silver Spring became construction site by spring.
Carpenters from Cedar Ridge thought Clara’s dimensions excessive.
She insisted.
Thirty-six-inch doors?
Wider.
Chairs with arms?
Some without.