Chapter 2: You lost, didn't you?

Autumn of 1928, the coastal town of New Haven carried its usual serene beauty.

Red maple leaves stretched across the brick-paved streets, and the crisp air carried the salty scent of the sea, mingling with the aroma of freshly baked goods from small shops downtown.

Smiltle sat on the steps of her home, her brown eyes reflecting the fading hues of sunset. She flipped through an old book, though her mind was not truly on the words.

Inside the house, Mrs. Vivian was finishing a dress for a client, while Richard carefully went through the shop's ledgers. Both were honest, hardworking people with no involvement in the outside world.

But Smiltle was different.

She had other concerns.

A luxurious car glided around the street corner and stopped in front of the tailor shop. Smiltle didn't need to check the license plate to know who had arrived.

Gregory Halverson Pychyl stepped out, draped in a long trench coat, his sharp gray-blue eyes sweeping the surroundings as if assessing everything in sight.

This man was, in name, Smiltle's godfather—a long-time friend of the Light family. But she knew Greg was not just a fabric merchant, as he claimed.

He came unannounced, but Smiltle was not surprised.

"Smiltle," Greg's deep voice called, his eyes holding a glint of amusement. "Aren't you going to greet your godfather?"

Smiltle looked up, a faint, unreadable smile forming on her lips.

"Hello, Uncle Greg."

Inside the house, her mother had already noticed the guest. She set down her sewing needle, adjusted her hair, and stepped out with a polite smile.

"Gregory, you arrived just in time. Dinner is nearly ready. Would you like to join us?"

Greg smirked, slipping off his leather gloves and tucking them into his coat pocket. "If it's not too much trouble."

"You are always a welcomed guest," Vivian replied, though her gaze carried a hint of scrutiny.

Smiltle glanced at her mother, then at Greg. She didn't fully understand what the adults were calculating, but she could sense it—Greg hadn't come here just for dinner.

He had another reason.

And she intended to find out what it was.

---

Dinner unfolded with a normalcy that felt almost excessive.

Smiltle quietly ate her soup, but her ears remained keenly attuned to the conversation between her mother, father, and Greg.

"Richard, how's business these days?" Greg asked, his tone casual, as if he truly cared about a small tailor shop.

Richard set down his spoon, his expression calm yet cautious. "Not bad. People still need good clothes, even as the economy slows down."

Greg nodded. "A stable industry. You're lucky."

Vivian chuckled softly, continuing to cut the meat on her plate. "Gregory, if you came here just to ask about my husband's business, I believe you already have your answer."

Greg smirked. "Actually, I came here for Smiltle."

Smiltle glanced up, masking her intrigue with just the right amount of curiosity.

"For Smiltle?" Vivian frowned. "Has she done something?"

Greg shook his head. "Nothing serious. I just think a bright child like her shouldn't waste her potential."

Richard tapped his fingers lightly against the table—a habit of his whenever he was displeased. "I don't think my daughter needs your involvement, Greg."

Greg's smirk didn't waver, but Smiltle noticed the glimmer of interest in his eyes.

"Smiltle, would you like to try something small?"

"What kind of something?" Smiltle asked.

Greg tilted his head slightly, as if evaluating her. "A little game. A test of observation."

Vivian set down her knife. "Gregory."

"Relax," Greg raised a hand reassuringly. "Just an intellectual exercise. I want to see how many details she can pick up about the people around her."

Smiltle blinked. "A game? Alright."

Greg smiled. "Good. Look at me and tell me what you can deduce."

She set her spoon down, tilting her head. Her brown eyes flashed with an unnerving sharpness, unbefitting a child.

"You just came from a place with strong winds, but not near the sea—your coat isn't damp. You met someone who made you a bit tense, but not too much—your hand trembled slightly when you set down your knife. And you never actually planned on eating here, because you didn't remove your hat when you entered."

The table fell silent.

Greg's lips curled. "Clever."

Vivian murmured, "Smiltle…"

She blinked innocently and smiled. "I was just guessing."

Greg rested his chin on his hand, deep in thought.

Smiltle knew he had just realized something important—something she wanted him to realize.

She was not an ordinary child.

And yet, she wanted to be one.

Vivian waved a hand, her smile unshaken, though her gaze had turned slightly sharper.

"Impressive, my dear," she said softly. "I never knew you were so perceptive."

Smiltle understood the underlying message—a discreet reminder not to reveal too much.

Yet what intrigued her more was her mother's reaction. No shock, no confusion, no hesitation.

After that, Gregory and Richard resumed their conversation—mundane, meaningless chatter. But across the table, an unspoken battle waged between mother and daughter.

Smiltle and her mother locked eyes, as if engaging in a mental duel with a predetermined outcome.

---

"The dress should be comfortable," Smiltle said, keeping her tone light.

Vivian nodded. "Of course."

"Then a long skirt would be better."

Vivian smiled. "You can still be comfortable and stylish."

"But I'll be walking a lot. A long skirt is more practical."

"It's a short distance."

"But the wind might be strong."

"A well-fitted dress will give you confidence."

"I don't need confidence. I need comfort."

Vivian rested her chin on her hand. "Smiltle, you know I'll win."

Smiltle fell silent. She did. But that didn't mean she would give up easily.

"Beige," she insisted. "And ankle-length."

Vivian shook her head. "Blue. A little shorter."

"Blue is too bright."

"You have beautiful eyes. Blue will make them shine."

"A longer skirt would make me look more graceful."

"Grace isn't about covering up."

"But short skirts are uncomfortable."

"Just above the knee. You'll get used to it."

Smiltle clenched her fists. Her mother always won.

Across the table, Greg smirked. "What are you two discussing so passionately?"

Vivian chuckled. "Just outfits."

Richard sighed, as if this was beyond his involvement. "Smiltle, listen to your mother."

Smiltle gritted her teeth but relented. "Fine. But I choose the shoes."

Vivian nodded. "As long as they're not those heavy boots."

Smiltle pressed her lips together. That was exactly what she had planned.

Another round lost.

---

Smiltle leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. She had lost this battle, but not the war.

"So I can wear any shoes I want?"

Vivian nodded. "As long as they're not heavy boots."

Smiltle's lips curved slightly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Then I'll wear slippers."

Vivian narrowed her eyes. "You won't."

"I'm serious. Slippers are more comfortable."

Vivian sighed but kept smiling. "No slippers. Only shoes."

"Then black leather shoes."

"Too dark."

"White shoes."

"Too easy to stain."

"Red shoes."

"Too flashy."

Smiltle bit her lip. She had been outmaneuvered again.

Greg sipped his tea, amused. "Mrs. Vivian, you're quite skilled."

Vivian smiled. "Smiltle is smart, but she's still my daughter."

Smiltle exhaled. If resistance was futile, then negotiation was key.

"Fine. Blue shoes, blue dress. But I'll wear my hair low."

Vivian hesitated a moment, then laughed. "Agreed."

Smiltle narrowed her eyes. "You agreed too quickly."

Vivian rested her cheek on her hand, her expression enigmatic. "That's because I wanted you to wear it that way all along."