Gilby took Titus’s hand when he reached the table that was also her de facto throne. Her grip was stronger than he had anticipated. Years of chopping vegetables, rolling dough, and rendering chickens had given her hands deep strength, the kind that didn’t wither with age. He wondered why her hands had retained their power and his father’s had become distorted. They both had worked with their hands. But only Gilby owned her time. She could rest whenever she wanted. Albert’s hands had been tethered to another man’s whims.
