Like any stepchild, there had been a long period of time when Lucy had first arrived at the house, seven years old and already full of spite and vinegar, where she'd flat out refused to call Grace 'mom' like the rest of them did, because she already had a mom, and the fact that said mom had abandoned her here didn't change the fact that Grace wasn't her mom.

But that had softened considerably during Lucy's recovery from a fall from a gable roof, one that had miraculously -and due to at least some of Lucy's own ability- ended up with nothing worse than a sprained ankle a cleanly broken arm, and bruised ribs. But Grace had been there through her recovery, something that her own mother had certainly never done, aside from the occasional childhood flu or cold.

And now, after a few days back in the house, Lucy woke up to the familiar smell of breakfast and then, right there, Grace calling them down to eat. She smiled, making her way downstairs, dressed for the day, but barefoot as she almost always had been in her younger years, padding into the kitchen, "Morning, mom. Five didn't abscond with all the coffee yet, did he?"