“Absolutely,” Nancy replied. “But you must be the first to seek. It is your house, after all.”
Oscar groaned, but with the air of a man secretly delighted. “Fine,” he said, rising. “But no hiding in the attics or outside. I don’t want to have to fetch a ladder or a bloodhound.”
Clara and Henry cheered, then began an animated discussion of where to hide first. Nancy caught Oscar’s eye and gave a conspiratorial smile. “They called you ‘Uncle’,” she murmured.
He looked away, as if embarrassed. “It is biologically accurate.”
“It is also very sweet,” Nancy said, a little too softly.
Oscar cleared his throat and addressed the twins. “If you’re hiding together, you must pick the spot wisely. I have an excellent memory for details.”
“You’re a grown-up,” said Clara. “You cheat.”
He shrugged, not denying it.
Henry looked to Nancy. “Will you help me find a really good spot?”
Nancy grinned. “The very best one.”
They conferred, the twins whispering elaborate stratagems in her ear.
Oscar closed his eyes and started to count. “One… Two… Three…”
The children squealed and scattered. Nancy followed Henry, who darted down the hallway and into the old music room, a place rarely used since Oscar’s mother died. Dust floated in the air, settling over the battered pianoforte and the covered chairs. Henry dived behind a stack of crates, pulling Nancy after him.
“Do you think he’ll look in here?” Henry whispered.
“He might,” Nancy replied, crouching down.
The room was cold and smelled of old paper and must. Nancy glanced at the piano, then at Henry, whose face was set in serious determination.
“Should I hide in the cupboard?” he asked.
“It’s a very fine cupboard,” Nancy said, “but the air is dreadful.”
He looked at her, big green eyes wide. “I want to win.”
“You will,” she promised.
She gave him a quick squeeze and sent him into the cupboard, then dusted herself off and surveyed the rest of the room. On a whim, she drifted to the old instrument and pressed a key. It gave a brittle, ghostly sound.
She lifted the lid. Inside were stacks of papers, bundled with string. Curiosity trumped her sense of urgency; she untied one bundle, revealing a sheaf of letters in Oscar’s unmistakable hand.
Private, private, private, said every warning bell in her head. But curiosity was a disease she’d never found a cure for.
She opened one, dated six years prior.
Peter—
I write this in the hope you will forgive me.
I was wrong to forbid you from marrying Teresa. She is a credit to you and to our family. I will not say I understand, but I accept.
When you are ready, bring her home. I would like to meet her and her children, if you have any by then.
—O
Nancy’s breath caught. She flipped through the stack. More letters, every one gentler than she would have believed possible, addressed to Peter and sometimes to Teresa herself. She read one dated the month before Peter’s death.
