“Terribly afraid,” Nancy said. “But he kept walking, even when the forest grew dark and the shadows looked like claws.”
She continued the tale of the elf’s clever tricks. “He became friends with a rather clever fox.”
“What was the fox’s name?” Clara interrupted.
“The fox is called Liam the Sly.”
Henry giggled at that, and Nancy continued the tale,“One day, a dragon emerged in the village.”
Clara gasped and clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening. “Did the dragon eat anyone?”
Nancy had to laugh at that, but she shook her head. “Everyone was afraid of this vicious dragon, but instead of slaying it, the little elf offered it bread and cheese, and in doing so, convinced it to leave the village alone.”
“Impressive!” Henry grinned. “I want to do that and become a knight.”
“You shall, my little one.” Nancy ruffled his hair. She continued the story, welcoming more interruptions from the children, but by the end, the twins leaned against Nancy with their eyes at half-mast.
She closed: “And so the elf, who had been afraid, became the bravest of all, because he learned that being brave means doing the right thing even when your heart is shaking.”
There was a silence, softer than the down on Clara’s pillow.
“Did the elf ever get to go home?” Henry asked, not opening his eyes.
Nancy thought of Teresa, of the smallness and sadness of the world when you lost your place in it. “Yes,” she said. “He went home, and everyone in the village was very proud.”
Clara yawned, dropping her head onto her folded arms. “I like that story,” she said, but it came out slurry and fading.
Nancy set the brush aside, smoothed the blankets over both children, and sat for a moment in the hush.
She was about to leave when a quiet knock sounded at the open door. Oscar stood at the threshold, shoulders filling the space. His waistcoat was the same midnight blue as the wedding, but the cravat was gone, and his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. He looked tired, but there was something else—something almost uncertain—in the set of his jaw.
Nancy blushed. It was absurd, she knew, to blush at a man who had spent the afternoon legally binding himself to her, but there it was: a slow burn rising up her neck. She turned away, busying herself with the hairbrush, though he stood half a room away.
Oscar cleared his throat, and the children snapped alert. Henry’s eyes darted to Oscar, then dropped. Clara sat up, the sleep gone from her face.
Oscar didn’t enter. He kept one hand on the door frame, the other in his pocket. “Good night, children.”
Clara stared at him. “Good night, Your Grace.”
Henry echoed, softer, “Good night.”
Oscar’s gaze lingered on Nancy, unreadable. “Good night, Duchess,” he said, and then he was gone.
The silence in his wake was colossal.
Nancy stared at the brush in her hand, turning it over once, twice.
Clara, already halfway to sleep again, muttered, “He always leaves so fast.”
Henry, voice almost a whisper: “Why does the Duke not like being with us?”
Nancy’s heart pinched. She tucked them both in, kissed their hair, and whispered, “He does like being with you. He just isn’t very good at it yet.”
Henry’s eyes blinked up at her, desperate for confirmation. “Will you stay? Until I sleep?”
Nancy nodded, squeezing his hand. “Of course.”
She waited until they both drifted off, breath slow and even, before slipping away, her own heart full of a dragon’s worth of ache.
