Page 120 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

“Yes. But before, it was a large quiet.” Aurora spread her hands as if measuring an enormous object. “Now it is only quiet.”

“I see.”

“And he never found out.”

Poppy tilted her head. “Found out what?”

Aurora glanced at her, lowering her voice. “About my words.”

Poppy’s throat softened. “Your words?”

“When they get stuck.” Aurora touched two fingers to her mouth. “He never knew.”

Poppy looked toward the stables, where a groom passed through the wide doorway, then back at Aurora. “No,” she said gently. “He never figured it out.”

Aurora nodded, satisfied. “That is good.”

“Very good.”

Poppy bent over Princess under the pretense of adjusting the baby’s blanket. She needed the moment. Hector had known, of course. He noticed far more than people believed, perhaps because the world denied him detail, and so he had learned to read weight, pause, breath, silence. He had never once cornered Aurora with that knowledge. He had let the child keep her dignity.

That was the sort of kindness that did not announce itself.

It troubled Poppy more than grand gestures might have.

She had expected the one-month deadline to remain between them like a candle burning down. Hector had spoken of it before their marriage with such hard certainty, as if time could be measured, tested, and judged. Yet he had not mentioned it again. Not at breakfast. Not in the corridor. Not during the careful conversations in which they stood too close and said too little.

And if that agreement had begun to fade, what of the other?

Separate bedrooms.

The phrase had once sounded practical. Sensible. Safe.

Now it felt like a door left closed after the room behind it had changed.

Poppy looked toward the house without meaning to. She thought of the quiet hall between their chambers, of the nights when she lay awake and knew he was awake too. She thought of the kiss they had shared, and of his restraint afterward, which had wounded and reassured her in equal measure.

A familiar tap reached her before his voice did.

Hector came from the direction of the stable path, tall and dark-haired, his cane moving ahead of him with practiced precision. He did not hurry, but he never appeared hesitant. His pale gray eyes were turned toward them, though Poppy knew he would make out shapes and movement more readily than faces. Still, she felt seen.

Aurora sprang to her feet, then checked herself. She looked at Poppy as if requesting permission to be brave.

Poppy smiled. “Go on.”

Aurora approached him with a careful dignity that lasted three steps before she ran the rest of the way. Hector stopped at once. His free hand came down, ready before she reached him.

“Uncle Hector,” Aurora said.

“Aurora.”

“There are ponies.”

“So I gathered.”

“I am not riding them.”

“A wise decision, if you do not wish to.”