Food, in my inexperienced opinion, has always been the remedy for strained relations. The man who doesn't feel his anger, hatred, or rage diminish with a belly of hot food and a strong drink is hardly a man. Beasts in all forms eat their fill, and still, they hunger. The cat is an excellent example of that: when she can be found, Flora is a bitter creature, and not even after feeding her what little we do have does she relent in her distaste of the residents of our terrible home.

I reminded myself of this nourishing philosophy as I cut up another oatcake, the swollen berries that decorated its top threatening to burst under my knife. Raising a skewered piece to my lips, I took a slow bite, savouring the warmth of fresh food. I ate slowly, carefully around the fruit. Only once the oats had been swallowed did I finally pop the berries.

Staring at me the whole while was Mr. Moore, who appeared unable to tear his gaze away from the dramatic ordeal I'd made of breakfast. Even when the dark blue juice ran down my chin, staining my skin, he didn't blink but followed the trail with his eyes. My peculiar mood had not left me, it would seem.

I don't know why he stayed in the room. He cooked under no obligation, and he delivered the food to the spoiled brat living upstairs under even less of one. How easily he could have left! Perhaps he wished to see my reaction, though; if he was applying for any sort of help around a house, was it not assumed that he should cook well enough to avoid negative reactions?

His staring gave me much room for thought, and every bite was accompanied with another wonder about his past. Who was this man? Why had he appeared at our door, followed Piers and Petra home? There was nothing about us that should have attracted anybody. We were the foul, the misbegotten, the ailing! The Hase family had fallen from any semblance of royalty (as if we'd ever been such) and my mind was as broken as the fruit I continued to crush thinking about why Mr. Moore would have chosen us.

"How... how is it?" He was leaning forward, mouth parted. To anyone who hadn't known he was the cook, it would have seemed very much as though he wanted some of the food. Feeling curiously playful, I decided to oblige.

"Find out for yourself," I replied, pushing the platter to the edge of my bed.

"Mr... Hase?"

"Please, call me Evan. Go on. You cooked it; what's stopping you from tasting it?" This appeared to be novel thinking to him. He reached a hand out and touched a berry, rolling it until it left a purple smear across the surface of a cake. There was something on his mind, but he pushed it aside to gently pick up a cake. Then, so delicately as to make the action look comical, put the entire thing in his mouth. The strain momentarily stretched his cheeks and revealed the same shiny scar tissues I'd noticed on his chest. He swallowed his food with a sheepish grin, though, and the silver lines disappeared.

"Not bad," he admitted, sliding the plate back. "A bit dry. Your chin." I wondered what my face had to do with the food until he pointed. I must have looked a right fool, with juice slowly drying on my skin, but he didn't seem to care. Instead, as calmly as he'd changed me, Mr. Moore licked his the entirety of his palm, and grasped my face with his free hand, providing the horrifying scenario of being cleaned like a cat. I tried to lurch back, but he was stronger than he looked. Rubbing my chin with a determined frown, he looked, from my uncomfortable vantage point, like my mother. Well, as my mother should have been. Every book I read with a mother had one behaving in this sort of manner, with that firm desire to clean up the messy brood they'd raised. I found myself stilling and letting him clean me, imagining, if you will, that he really was my mother. I could almost smell her if I closed my eyes, almost feel her nails pressing into the nape of my neck. If Mr. Moore found my sudden compliance strange, he didn't say.

I feel I must explain myself, perhaps some of my motivations which, at the time, were unknown. I made mention earlier of my isolation from others and my general lack of socialisation. Fabian Moore was the only real person I'd met since Petra's tutor had left, and I hadn't been keen on keeping count of the days since the end of that miserable acquaintanceship. I do not wish to push the blame of what happened, or was to come, on my isolation, but it is important. Some might say it was an excuse, and others might claim I was avoiding responsibility for my actions, and they all might be right. What I can say with the utmost honesty, however, is that I was excited. I didn't know if I was expecting a friend in Mr. Moore, or a storyteller or even another sibling. His company was all I wanted, and I must apologise for all that innocent desire led to.

Eventually, Uncle Godrick came to his senses while we were gathered around the fireplace in the sitting room, and introduced himself to Mr. Moore, resolutely calling him by his full name every time he addressed him. "Names are of the utmost importance," he cried, shaking a defiant pen to the skies. "Who are we but animate clay, forgettable decorations without our titles?" Upon hearing this particular exultation, everyone within hearing distance rolled their eyes. Even Petra, curled upon the floor and distracted by her paints, put down the brush and squinted at him.

"And where are the great Oderghasts now?" Piers found this to be a great source of amusement, his tickled fancy increasing with every protest and panicked defense our uncle uttered.

The subject of the initial argument was crouched in front of the fireplace, trying desperately to coax a flame out of the damp logs. He didn't appear to hear any of us. Was it mere concentration? I wondered if we didn't seem terribly dull to him, until he turned around with an upturned brow and a pained expression. "Mr... Oderghast, please. I beg you... call me Fabian."

"He's too polite to tell you to shut up!" Any hope of peace was shattered as a shouting game ensued. Too tired to contribute, I rolled my eyes at them and turned to watch Fabian. He gave me a sympathetic look before facing the pile of gray-green logs once more. I didn't have the heart to tell him he was fighting a losing battle; it was too cold not to hold out some hope.

He fiddled with something unseen for a moment, and then a sudden gust of air came roaring out of the chimney. Mr. Moore covered his face only seconds before a weak cloud of smoke and ash began to spread out. The success (I supposed, as I did not know how fireplaces operated) stunned the rest of the family, and they gaped at the ashy figure kneeling before them.

"Well, then." He scraped something in his hand, and then the chimney was alive with fire, the presence of which made the horrendous odour preceding its arrival all the more bearable to sit through.

The room settled down once the fireplace had been going for a few minutes. It was a strange feeling, this warmth in the house. Even the heaps of blankets and coverings we buried ourselves in only kept the damp out. Nothing seemed capable of letting warmth in. Surprised, now, by our good fortune, everyone plied Mr. Moore with compliments and sighs of gratitude. He didn't appear to know what to do with them, so he left in search of more firewood, his irises glowing fiercely against the light of the flames. In his extended absence, as nobody had remembered to tell him where the spare logs were hiding in the vastness of the house, the talking quieted down. We murmured amongst each other for a while, until even that stopped in the comforting buzz of the burning logs. When Mr. Moore returned, Uncle Godrick had slipped into a slumber (sitting still for too long usually had this effect on him, but it was rapidly encouraged by the feeling of comfort); Piers had taken his glasses off and was reading, something I had not seen him do in years; and Petra had taken after our uncle to doze, her pale hair fanning out against the floor. Moments after Mr. Moore's return, Piers began to snore. At least he looked at peace!

I was not the only to notice this. Mr. Moore picked up a knit throw from the arm of the couch and laid it gently on Piers, moving back with a satisfied expression when the snoring stayed consistent. "I should like to call this a success, Mr. Hase," he whispered, turning his bright face to mine. I beamed at him from my position on the divan.

"Evan, and I am of a mind to agree. You're working too hard for this house, though. We'll never let you leave, at this rate." The corners of his mouth turned down slightly, but he shook his head and smiled once more.

"Shall we agree on something?" He appeared hesitant.

I was intrigued. "What do you propose?"

"Since we are so determined..."

"Obstinate?"

"Well..." He didn't want to agree with me, but I think we both knew it was true. Whatever his reasons for being here, I was quite sure none of them were the result of listening to a word of sense anyone had thrown his way, and whatever my physical limits, he would soon know I was much the same. "I shall call you as you wish, but I really must beg you..."

"Alright." I hated to point out that one didn't beg during agreements, but my contentious mood was gone. It was incredible, the wonders not being surrounded by the damp did for one's spirits! "Would you like to sit down?"

I had never seen a question take somebody so aback. Stepping away, he opened his mouth, closed it, and looked at the floor. Was I really so detestable a talking partner? Whatever the case, Fabian Moore shook his head and turned to leave, mumbling something behind him but disappearing so quickly, I wondered if he'd ever been there at all.

Left to listen to the fire by myself, I marvelled at how rapidly tears evaporated so close to the heat.