Mel remained on the path above the beach, observing but not participating.
“Miss Grace.” Rhys climbed back up the rocks to where she stood.
“You’re not joining us?”
“I’m supervising.”
“You can supervise from the sand.”
“The sand is wet, and full of sand.”
“That is generally true of beaches, yes.”
She almost smiled. He saw it this time, the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth that suggested genuine amusement beneath her composed exterior. It lasted only a moment before she suppressed it, but he had seen it, and something in his chest responded with unexpected warmth.
“Go play with your children, Mr. Langford. They have been waiting for this.”
He went, and he played.
He helped Anna construct an elaborate sandcastle that required, according to her specifications, a moat, three towers, and a defensive wall capable of withstanding tidal assault. He helped Viola collect shells, carrying the ones she selected with appropriate reverence and listening to her whispered theories about each one’s origin. He let Thistle bury him in sand up to his neck, lying perfectly still while she shoveled like a gravedigger who had finally found her purpose.
“You’re trapped now,” Thistle informed him, patting the sand around his shoulders with satisfaction.
“You can never leave.”
“I accept my fate.”
“Brutus will guard you.” She produced the toad from her pocket and placed him on the sand beside Rhys’s head, where he sat with the patient indifference only an amphibian could muster.
“If you try to escape, he’ll stop you.”
“Brutus is a formidable guardian.”
“He is. He once defeated three worms in single combat.”
“A legendary achievement.”
From her position on the path, Mel watched this exchange with an expression that had shifted from composed observation to something softer. Her shoulders had eased, and she watchedthe children with the careful attention of someone beginning to believe this might last.
The week continued and the pattern deepened.
By the fifth day, the evening conversations had begun.
It started innocuously enough. The children were in bed, their stories read and their lights extinguished, and Rhys had found himself restless in his room with no one to talk to and no performance to maintain. He had wandered downstairs to the study, intending to review some correspondence that Grieves had sent ahead, and found Mel already there.
She was writing something at the desk by the window, her quill moving in the steady rhythm that characterised all her movements. She looked up when he entered but did not offer to leave.
“Mr. Langford. I didn’t expect you to be awake.”
“Sleep eludes me.” He moved toward the chair by the fireplace, then hesitated. “If I’m disturbing you…”
“You’re not.” She set down her pen and turned to face him fully.
“I was composing my weekly report on the children’s progress. You’re welcome to hear it in person rather than waiting for the written version.”
“I would appreciate that.”
And so the first conversation began, professional and focused. Mel reporting on Anna’s advancement in mathematics, Viola’s emerging confidence in reading aloud, Thistle’s ongoing experiments with Brutus and the garden insects. Rhys listened and asked questions and found himself, for the first time in years, genuinely engaged in a discussion about his children’s education.
