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Emeline reached for the book. She smoothed the tattered cover and then looked up. “Keep it for me, will you?”
“What?”
Emeline smiled and held the book out to her best friend. “Translate it. Maybe you’ll find in it the thing I couldn’t.”
Melisande knitted her brows, but she took the book, holding it on her lap between both hands. “If you think it best.”
“I do.” Emeline yawned hugely and not at all politely. “Goodness. And now it’s to bed for me.”
Melisande accompanied her into the hallway, murmuring a good night before turning to the door.
Emeline started up the stairs and then had a sudden thought, perhaps brought on by the delirium of exhaustion. “Melisande.”
Her friend glanced up from donning her shawl by the door. “Yes?”
“Do you think you can watch after Jasper for me?”
Melisande, that sturdy, unflappable lady, actually gaped in astonishment. “What?”
“I know it’s a strange request, and I’m half out of my mind with weariness right now, but I worry about Jasper.” Emeline smiled at her best friend. “Will you look after him?”
By this time, Melisande had recovered. “Of course, dear.”
“Oh, good.” Emeline nodded and started back up the stairs, a weight off her mind.
Behind her, she heard Melisande call a farewell, and she must’ve murmured something in response, but she could only think of one thing.
She needed to sleep.
“DO YOU THINK Mr. Thornton really was the traitor?” Rebecca asked later that night.
She was sleepy, almost dozing in front of the fire. Samuel had risen from his bed to have a belated cold supper with her, and then they’d retired here. She should be asleep; she was so exhausted after the adventures of the day, but somehow something seemed to be missing.
Across from her, Samuel held up a goblet of brandy and looked through the glass into the fire. “I think so.” His face was battered, new bruises atop old ones that had barely begun to heal, but it was dear to her nonetheless.
She blinked fuzzily. “But you’re not absolutely sure.”
He shook his head decisively and drained the glass. “Thornton is a born liar. It’s impossible to tell whether he really had nothing to do with the massacre or not. He may not know himself—liars have a way of coming to believe their own lies. I doubt we’ll ever be absolutely certain.”
“But”—Rebecca stifled a yawn—“you came halfway around the world to find the truth, to put the massacre to rest. Doesn’t it bother you that Thornton might not be the traitor?”
“No. Not anymore.”
“I don’t understand.”
A smile flickered across his face. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I can never erase Spinner’s Falls entirely from my mind. It’s not possible for me.”
“But that’s awful! How—”
He held up a hand to halt her worried protest. “But what I’ve learned is that I can live with the memory. That the memory is part of me.”
She stared at him worriedly. “That sounds terrible, Samuel. To live with that all your life.”
“It’s not so bad,” he said softly. “I’ve already lived six years fighting with my memories. I think if anything, it’ll be better now that I know the memories are part of who I am.”
She sighed. “I don’t understand, but if you’re at peace, I’m glad.”
“I am.”
