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Lucy laughed harder. "Barely."

"What sorts of things did she read?" Arabella asked.

"Stories. Sometimes she made them up herself. And some were from when she was little. Her mother used to tell them to her." Lucy paused. "I can't remember all of them now."

"That's all right," Arabella said.

"It's not, though," Lucy shot back. "I used to know her voice so well. The way she sounded when she sang, and when she laughed, and when she was pretending to be cross but wasn't really. And now I try to hear it in my head and I…I can't always find it."

The corridor was quiet. John's throat grew so tight, he wondered how he was still breathing. Part of him wanted to rush in and scoop Lucy up into his arms. But if he did⁠—

If he did, she would most certainly stop talking.

"I know," Arabella said.

"You do?" Lucy asked. She almost sounded…eager.

"My mother used to sing to me." Arabella's voice was softer than he'd ever heard it. "Before she got ill. And I have tried for years to remember what she sounded like when she sang."

There was a pause, and John found himself aching to hear her next words.

Finally, she admitted, "I can't remember."

John thought his heart might split in two at the genuine grief in her voice.

"Does it scare you?" Lucy asked quietly. "Forgetting?"

"Yes."

John leaned against the wall. The milk was getting cold in his hands and he did not care.

"But you know what I think?" Arabella said. "I think the forgetting doesn't mean we loved them less. It just means we were small when we knew them, and small people can only hold on to so much."

John heard the sound of movement. Someone shifting, the fire crackling. "I suppose," Lucy said.

She did not sound convinced.

"But what I know for certain," Arabella continued, her voice closer to normal now. "What I absolutely know to be true…" She paused, and he suspected that Lucy was leaning in just as he was, impatient to know what truth she'd share. "The specifics might get lost to time, but the feelings never will. Tell me." There was a pause and John peeked in to see Arabella leaning forward in her seat, her elbows on her knees so she was eye to eye with Lucy. "Do you remember how it made you feel? When your mother read to you?"

Lucy nodded quickly. "Oh yes. I remember that."

Arabella smiled, satisfied as if Lucy was a star pupil. "That is what stays. No matter how many memories leave, that feeling will always stay."

A silence. Then he heard it. Lucy saying, "I like that," in a voice thick with tears.

He waited another moment before he walked in.

At some point when he wasn't looking, Arabella had joined Lucy on the settee, one arm wrapped around her. And Lucy was tucked against Arabella's side.

They both looked up when he came in.

He handed Lucy the milk without comment. She took it with both hands and drank. And she did not move from Arabella's side. It wasn't long before Lucy's eyelids started to droop. John leaned forward and took the cup from her. She released it without complaint.

Arabella wouldn't quite meet his eyes. Not in a mean way, but almost like…

Almost like she was shy.

He wondered if she knew he'd been listening. Or if she suspected, at least.