Page 93 of Duke of Sapphire

He looked at the list. “The gift hunt. Whose idea was that?”

“Mine.”

“And the gifts are to be hidden in the garden?”

“Yes. Scattered about for him to find.”

“Organized in a route, or random?”

Charlotte turned to look at him fully. “It is a treasure hunt for a six-year-old, not a military campaign.”

“A route would be more satisfying,” Henry said. “Random is frustrating. He finds two things quickly and then spends half an hour looking for the third and the enjoyment is lost.”

She opened her mouth. She closed it. “That is,” she said slowly, “actually quite sensible.”

“I am frequently sensible.”

“You are frequently sensible about things that have nothing to do with feelings, yes.”

He gave her a look. “A gift hunt has nothing to do with feelings. It is logistics.”

“It is a birthday gift hunt for a grieving child.”

“Which requires good logistics.”

Charlotte picked up the pencil and wrote route—Henry’s idea-- in the margin beneath lemon sponge. He noticed and looked at it but said nothing, which she took as a victory.

“What are the gifts?” she asked.

Henry grinned. “I believe I ought to keep that to myself.”

CHAPTER 26

“There’s somethin' in the garden,” Ian said.

He was standing at the breakfast room window with his nose nearly on the glass, his porridge untouched behind him. He had been there for approximately three minutes. Henry had watched him get there. He had watched the exact moment the boy had noticed that the garden did not look quite like itself this morning.

“There is,” Henry said.

Ian turned. “What kind of somethin'?”

“The kind you find by going to look.” Henry set down his cup. “Eat your porridge first.”

Ian sat. He ate his porridge faster than Henry had ever seen him eat anything, with the focused efficiency of a child who had one goal and one obstacle between himself and it. He did not finish it entirely. Henry decided this was acceptable.

Charlotte was already at the garden door when they reached it, her shawl drawn around her shoulders, and she looked at Ian with an expression Henry recognized as the particular brightness she kept only for him.

“Happy birthday,” she said.

Ian looked at her. Then at the garden. Then at Henry.

“It’s in the garden,” Henry said. “Start near the roses.”

Ian was gone.

* * *

He found the soldiers first. They were tucked behind the rose bed in a small wooden box, painted in careful red and blue, an entire regiment of them. Ian sat down on the path without ceremony and opened the lid and counted them with one moving finger, his lips forming the numbers silently.