Page 11

She had spent thirty years maintaining usefulness, ensuring she was necessary, and remaining behind while others departed. The prospect of leaving Ashwood, even for a fortnight, felt unnervingly precarious.

What if no one needs me there? What if Julian only asked because Cassian put the idea in his head? What if I go to London and discover that I am still the girl everyone leaves behind?

Turning another leaf, Thomas's handwriting blurred before her eyes, forcing her to blink back the moisture. Memories of her youth surfaced, carrying her back sixteen years.

The meadow at Ashwood stretched green and warm beneath a clear spring sky. She and Thomas crouched beside a flowering shrub at the woodland border, where small, star-shaped white blossoms released the scent of wild honey.

"Observe the stamens, Adelaide," fifteen-year-old Thomas remarked, in grass-stained trousers with a smudge of earth marking his cheek. "The filaments are fused; a rare characteristic for this genus."

She leaned nearer, her own skirts dusted with soil and her dark hair tumbling loose from its ribbon, completely unconcerned with her appearance.

"It resembles Pentaglottis," she observed, "though the foliage differs from the common variety."

"It is a hybrid," Thomas declared with a bright smile, "or a curious variation. In either case, it is remarkable."

Behind them in the shade of a broad oak tree, twenty-year-old Julian sat with a field sketchbook resting on his knees, his pencil moving silently across the paper as he remained quiet for nearly an hour.

"Julian, come examine this," Thomas had called out.

Julian had not raised his head. "I am completing a drawing."

"You are perpetually drawing," Thomas teased.

"And you are perpetually shouting over flora."

"These are botanical specimens, not common weeds." Thomas had offered Adelaide a brilliant grin. "He lacks an artistic soul."

"He possesses a soul," Adelaide had countered playfully. "He merely keeps it stored inside his pencil case."

Julian's pencil had paused. He looked up, his blue-gray eyes reflecting the dappled sunlight filtering through the oak leaves. "My case contains graphite, not a soul."

"Which you employ to record the nature of living things," Adelaide shot back smoothly.

Julian studied her for a moment before the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a rare, subtle smile. "You are an unusual young lady, Miss Ashbourne."

"Thank you kindly," she replied.

Thomas laughed freely. "Show us your work, then. Demonstrate what your graphite has captured."

Julian looked down at his sketchbook, making no move to share the page. Instead, he turned to a fresh sheet and resumed his sketching. Even then, Adelaide understood he would keep the drawing private; Julian recorded the world for his own quiet understanding.

Thomas turned back to the shrub, whispering softly, "Adelaide, look."

Perched upon the edge of a white petal was a delicate pale butterfly, its wings the color of aged parchment with dark markings near the margins.

"Remain still," Thomas instructed in a low hush.

Adelaide stilled entirely. She spent childhood afternoons pursuing butterflies across the Ashwood gardens, only to watch them flutter away whenever she drew near.

Thomas extended his hand with deliberate slowness. He made no sudden movement to capture the insect, merely extending a steady finger beside the stem. The butterfly flexed its wings briefly before stepping off the petal and onto his skin, opening and closing its wings in the warm sun.

Adelaide watched in silent awe. "How did you accomplish that?"

"You cannot compel a wild creature to trust you; you can only remain still enough that it chooses to settle."

"Allow me to try," she requested softly.

Thomas turned his hand carefully to bring the butterfly closer to her, but as her fingers moved forward in eager anticipation, the insect took flight, rising above the hedge and disappearing into the sunlight.