Managing The Mischief ~ Sequel to A Master of Mischief

~ Chapter 16

**Maddie’s POV**

“I’m beat,” Alithea sighs, as we apparate in front of the house, “can I go straight to bed?”

“Let’s get you something to eat first,” I tell her, “and you can start being nice now.”

She smiles slightly.

“I don’t know if I can,” she says, “it’s so much easier being mean.”

“But it’s so much nicer when you’re nice,” I tell her, squeezing her hand, “come on.”

We walk inside and I look at the clock. It’s eight. I sigh. The kids should have had dinner and been in bed an hour ago.

“Hey,” George says, walking out of the kitchen, “you okay?”

Alithea nods, not quite looking at him.

“Do you want to shower while I get dinner?” I ask Alithea.

“Dinner’s done,” George says, “the kids are fed and in bed.”

“I love you,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around his neck. Alithea makes a face and George laughs.

“Come here,” he says, pulling her into the hug.

“I’m hungry,” she complains, pulling away, “what’s for dinner?”

“A three course feast!” George grins.

“Dad, you can’t cook,” Alithea points out.

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” he says, leading us into the kitchen, “I have prepared a wonderful meal of spaghetti on toast!”

“Ew,” I cringe, “you fed that to our children?”

“With salad!” he says, pretending to be offended, “after the third failed attempt at actually cooking, they were quite relieved.”

“I can imagine,” I laugh, “right, let’s eat.”

“Dig in!” George says, putting a plate of cold spaghetti on toast in front of me.

“She’ll be okay now, right?”

“I hope so,” I say, snuggling into George’s chest, “the poor thing. I can’t believe we never realised.”

“Yeah, because that was something we could have guessed.”

“Do you think we’re good parents?” I ask.

“No, I think we’re terrible, abusive and neglectful parents.”

“I think so too.”

George laughs and kisses me lightly on the lips.

“Do you know what tomorrow is?” he asks. I pretend to think for a moment.

“Tuesday?”

“Our twelve year anniversary,” he laughs, “twelve fantastic years.”

“Twelve years,” I roll onto my back and stare at the dark ceiling, “eleven years since the war.”

“And nineteen years since we first met.”

“We’re so old.”

“Not yet we’re not,” George whispers in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. I feel his lips on my neck.

“I don’t think Alithea is asleep yet,” I whisper.

“So? We’ll be quiet,” he says, nuzzling my throat.

“Morning sweetie,” I greet Alithea. She sits down at the table and pours herself a bowl of cereal.

“For the record,” she says, “you two were so not quiet last night.”