“You don’t know anything about roses,” she said, not looking up from her examination.
“I know they have thorns and petals and they smell wonderful.”
“That is the most basic possible understanding of roses. Miss Grace could tell you about the cellular structure ofthe thorns and the chemical compounds responsible for the fragrance.”
“Miss Grace is considerably more educated than I am.”
Anna finally looked up, her expression sharp.
“She’s also angry with you. I can tell. She uses’Your Grace’when she’s angry. She used it with Mrs. Kemp once when Mrs. Kemp forgot to order more drawing paper.”
“People sometimes become angry when others make mistakes.”
“What mistake did you make?”
Rhys considered how to answer. His daughter was watching him with the same assessing gaze that Mel employed, the same demand for honesty that characterised everything in this household.
“I didn’t tell her something important about myself. I thought I was protecting her, but really I was protecting myself. And now she feels that I was dishonest with her.”
“Were you dishonest?”
“I withheld information. Some people consider that a form of dishonesty.”
“Miss Grace says that honesty is not merely the absence of falsehoods. It is the presence of relevant truth.” Anna returned her attention to the rose bush.
“That bears the very countenance of a falsehood.”
“You may be right.”
“I’m usually right. It’s my defining characteristic.”
Despite the heaviness in his chest, Rhys felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
“That’s a very confident assessment.”
“Confidence based on evidence is merely accuracy. Miss Grace taught me that too.”
He left Anna to her cataloguing and sought out Viola, who was curled in the window seat of the library with her sketchbook. She looked up when he entered, her expression was wary but not unwelcoming.
“May I sit with you?” he asked.
She nodded and shifted slightly to make room, though the window seat was already too small for two people. Rhys settled himself as best he could, his shoulder pressed against hers, and looked at the drawing she was working on.
It was the view from the window, the garden stretching toward the distant cliffs, the sky heavy with clouds that promised rain before evening. But she had added something that wasn’t there in reality. A figure standing near the rose bushes, small and precise, examining the flowers with evident concentration.
“That’s Anna,” he said.
Viola nodded.
“You draw your sisters often.”
Another nod.
“Do you ever draw yourself?”
She was quiet for a moment. Then, in that whisper-soft voice that always required leaning closer to hear:
“I don’t know what I look like from the outside.”
