“Did he l-leave?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “It seems His Grace is very practiced at doing so.”
Aaron did not understand the bitterness. That was perhaps for the best.
By dinner, Rowan sat at the head of the table with the same impenetrable control he had worn the night before.
“And then the c-captain went to the d-deck,” Aaron said, leaning toward her over his soup, “and the storm was everywhere, and the first mate said they should t-turn back, but the captain said no, because the island was close.”
“Was the captain right?” Emmeline asked.
Aaron nodded. “Yes. But also no.”
Rowan’s spoon paused.
Emmeline smiled. “That is often the most interesting sort of answer.”
Aaron looked pleased. “He was right because the island was close. But he was wrong b-because there were rocks. They broke the ship.”
“A grave offense.”
Aaron laughed, quick and delighted.
Rowan’s gaze lifted.
Emmeline caught it and refused to look away. “Did you enjoy such stories as a boy, Your Grace?”
The question forced him into the conversation. She saw the subtle tightening of his jaw and felt a small, wicked satisfaction.
“Some,” he said.
Aaron looked at him with interest. “Y-you did?”
Rowan’s gaze shifted to his son. “Yes.”
“What k-kind?”
A pause.
Aaron’s shoulders began drawing inward.
Then Rowan said, “Military histories.”
Aaron blinked. “Oh.”
Emmeline could not help herself. “Naturally. Far more sensible than pirates.”
Rowan looked at her then, and the air between them sharpened. “They had the advantage of being true.”
“And therefore, I suppose, never wet or impractical.”
A faint sound escaped Aaron before he could stop it.
Rowan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but not with anger. Not entirely.
“Some campaigns were very wet,” he said.
Aaron giggled again, looking between them, delighted by the exchange as if it were a performance arranged for his benefit.
