Had she truly been the one to exile Evelyn, Eleanor would have owned the deed without a shred of remorse. In her eyes, the girl had swindled the family out of five thousand dollars—for that kind of money, Eleanor felt she was entitled to see Evelyn dead, let alone sent to a labor camp.

But the reality grated on her. They were the ones who had suffered the loss, yet now they were expected to carry the blame.

“Adrian, Julian is your own brother, " Eleanor hissed into the receiver, her voice tight with suppressed rage. "You cannot simply abandon him."

Adrian’s expression remained a mask of icy indifference. "What do you think I am doing right now?"

Eleanor choked on her next word. Was this his idea of help? Driving a wedge between a son and his parents by pinning a false accusation on them?

"Fine," Adrian said, his tone final. "Think it over. The choice is yours."

The line went dead. Eleanor stared at the receiver, trembling with fury. But as the anger subsided, a cold knot of dread took its place. She knew Adrian wasn't a man given to empty threats.

By noon, Julian was summoned to the village office to take a call.

"Julian!" Eleanor’s voice crackled over the wire. "What is this your cousin is telling me? A meat thief? Stolen packages? A laughingstock? What on earth have you been doing?"

Julian’s face flushed a deep, humiliated crimson. He couldn't believe his cousin had actually ratted him out to his mother. "Adrian is in the township, not the village," he snapped, desperate to save face. "It’s all a misunderstanding. I didn't do anything. It’s none of your business anyway—why are you prying?"

Eleanor’s temper flared. "You are my son! Of course it’s my business! If you want to come home early, you have to stay out of trouble. Become an activist, a model worker—give your father and me something to work with so we can pull the strings to get you back to the city!"

Julian didn't argue. The harsh reality of rural life had drained his rebellious spirit; he wanted out as much as she wanted him back.

Eleanor sighed, the sound heavy with defeat. She realized that if Julian were innocent, he would have denied the charges outright instead of hiding behind "misunderstandings." She took a deep breath and prepared to swallow the bitter pill Adrian had prescribed.

"You were right before," she lied, the words tasting like ash. "It was me. I forced Evelyn to go to the countryside. Just... stay away from her from now on. Don't go looking for trouble."

If Julian actually had the wit to torment Evelyn successfully, Eleanor would have cheered him on. But he didn't. He was outmatched, and she couldn't risk him ending up in a "re-education" camp. A criminal record, even a minor one, would make it impossible to bring him home. She needed him to be a non-entity—if not a hero, then at least not a villain.

Julian felt the world tilt. He had held onto a sliver of hope that he was wrong about his parents, but today the truth had buried him. His own mother had led him into this trap.

"What happened between you and Evelyn is over," Eleanor continued, her voice maternal and firm. "Your father sent you there to end it. I will never accept that girl as a daughter-in-law. And as for Seraphina—don't even think about it. You'll be back in the city soon. Don't go picking up some country wife and ruining your future..."

Julian couldn't take any more. He hung up, leaving his mother staring at a silent phone. Eleanor’s face turned livid. She wasn't raising a son; she was serving a temperamental deity.

In her agitation, she realized she had forgotten to tell him about the money sewn into the lining of the coats. She had hidden it there to bypass her husband’s lectures on spoiling the boy and to avoid Adrian’s scrutiny. But as she thought of Julian’s rudeness, she scowled. He isn't an idiot, she rationalized. He’ll find it when he puts the clothes on.

That afternoon, the village distributed the winter vegetable stores. Rations of cabbage, radishes, and pumpkins were handed out based on work points.

The Barretts hauled away five hundred pounds of cabbage alone. Between the communal rations and their private plots, their cellar was packed to the rafters. In the north, these were life-and-death reserves; once the frost set in and the rot took its toll, even a hoard that size might not last the winter.

With the Barretts' help, Evelyn had dug her own cellar. She had been worried about getting the depth right—too shallow and the vegetables would freeze, too deep and it would be a deathtrap—but Martha had guided her through the process with practiced ease.

On the surface, Evelyn’s stores looked modest, but her spatial dimension told a different story. She had a hundred pounds of fresh cabbage and another hundred pounds of sauerkraut hidden away.

As Julian stood in line for his cabbage, he saw Evelyn finishing her load. Eager to bridge the gap between them, he stepped forward with an uncharacteristic smile. "Evelyn, let me carry that back for you."

Evelyn didn't even look up. "No need," she said, her voice flat.

Julian persisted, moving to grab the handles of her crate. "I insist. It’s heavy."

"Julian! Do you not understand plain English?" Evelyn snapped, her eyes flashing with irritation.

Julian looked as if he’d been slapped. "I’m just trying to help."

At that moment, Frank appeared, prompted by a nudge from his sister, Tess. He stepped between Evelyn and Julian, his broad shoulders forming a protective wall. "Evelyn, do you need a hand with this?"

Frank was the Barretts' second son, a recently discharged soldier who had returned to the village just a few days prior. He was the one who had done most of the heavy lifting for Evelyn’s cellar.

Evelyn’s face brightened instantly when she saw him and his flatbed cart. "Frank! That would be wonderful. Thank you."

Julian watched, stunned. Frank? She called him Frank? She had never even called her own biological brothers by their first names with such warmth. Why was she giving this man—this stranger—a title she once reserved for him?

Frank glanced at Julian, then back at Evelyn, a silent question in his arched eyebrow.

"Ignore him," Evelyn said clearly, loud enough for the surrounding neighbors to hear. "He’s nobody. We aren't even acquainted."

Julian felt a sharp, acidic pang of jealousy explode in his chest. It was only then, in the cold autumn air, that the memory hit him like a ghost. Once, a long time ago, she used to call him "Brother Julian."

He couldn't remember the last time he’d heard her say it.