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Adelaide reached over and laid her hand atop Helena's, briefly, gently. "He does not hate you. He hates himself."

Helena's composure broke. She bowed her head, shoulders shaking in a tiny, silent rhythm that might have been laughter or might have been tears.

They sat for a long time, sunlight creeping across the rug and dust motes swirling in the air. In the silence, Adelaide remembered the feel of Julian's hand in hers that morning, the way his face had drained of color at the mere mention of his sister's name.

After a while, Helena spoke again, her voice steadier. "You have spent less than a season in this house, yet you see more than anyone who has lived here all their lives. Why is that?"

"I do not know," Adelaide replied. "Perhaps because I know what it is to be invisible. Or perhaps because I have seen what loss can do when it is left to rot in darkness."

Helena nodded. She rose and moved down the gallery, trailing her hand along the row of paintings. She stopped before the family portraits—there were several, painted over the course of a decade. In one, a much younger Helena held a baby Julian, and their mother smiled, her arms encircling both. In another, their father stood behind all three children, looking stern and proud.

The last group portrait was smaller with just the three siblings, painted in the garden at dusk, the colors already fading at the edges.

Helena gazed at them for a long time.

She turned back to Adelaide.

"Why did you really ask me to come?"

Adelaide stood, joining her before the triptych of siblings. She spoke softly, her words floating in the cold air. "Because Julian is drowning. Because you are the only person who can throw him a rope. Because the Hawthornes are the loneliest people I have ever known, and I would rather be cursed for meddling than be cursed for doing nothing."

Helena let out a slow, shaky breath, her composure returning in small increments. "You are very stubborn, Adelaide."

"I was raised by an entire household of stubborn women. It is hereditary."

Helena smiled. It was a small smile, but real.

She reached for the portrait of Thomas and traced the outline of his laugh with her thumb. "It is easier to think of him as gone. The alternative is unbearable."

Adelaide nodded, understanding that with more clarity than she wished.

Helena turned from the portraits and faced her, eyes dry but shining. "If you mean to reunite this family, Duchess, you must be prepared for war. Julian is not easily moved."

"I am prepared."

"Are you?"

Adelaide swallowed, then said, "He misses you more than he knows."

Helena's hand went to her mouth, and for a moment she stood perfectly still.

"I spent thirteen years convincing myself he wanted nothing to do with me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not once did it occur to me that he might be drowning too."

Adelaide nodded.

Helena straightened, her posture sharpening into something regal, something she had not worn in a very long time.

"We must not let him run away again," she said.

"We will not," Adelaide agreed.

They left the gallery side by side. Helena paused at the door and looked back at the uncovered portraits.

"I had forgotten how lovely the light is in this room," she said, and smiled again, the sadness in it mixed with something like hope.

The two women moved down the hallway, shadows trailing behind them, and for the first time since entering the house, Adelaide thought she saw a glimmer of life returning to the walls.

A subtle but seismic change had occurred. The house itself seemed to shift.