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“Me too,” Laura admitted. “Tell me more about her.”

And so, between hiccups, Iris told her how her mother used to sing while she brushed her hair, off-key and unbothered.

“She had a little garden before she got sick,” Iris continued. “She had lots of roses. And lavender, too, but it never grew properly. She wouldn’t let Cook pull it up, though.”

Laura smiled. “She liked her lavender?”

“I think so. She said it was stubborn.” Iris paused, thinking. “She used to say Uncle Nathaniel was stubborn, too. And his temper was like thunder. Very loud, but it didn’t mean he would hurt anyone.”

A small smile tugged at Laura’s lips.

“She used to put notes in his coat pockets before he went riding. Little ones.” Iris held up her fingers, as if to show how small the notes were. “She said they were silly, but she liked putting them there.” She let out a sigh. “Do you think he still has any of them?”

“The notes?”

She nodded, her eyes beginning to droop. “Yes.”

“I don’t know,” Laura said gently. “But if he does, he must be keeping them somewhere safe and close.”

Iris seemed satisfied with that and gave a small nod. Or perhaps she had grown too tired to talk anymore.

Soon after, her eyes fluttered shut, and her breathing evened out. Laura carried her to her room and tucked her in bed, pulling the blankets to her chin.

I imagine it is the way a mother might, though I have no memory of my own to draw from.

She planted a kiss on the girl’s head and then left, closing the door softly behind her.

She had just finished dressing for bed, her hair hanging loose down her back, when a knock came.

For a moment, she thought it was Sarah, but then realized it was from the connecting door. It was hesitant, soft enough to ignore if she wanted to feign sleep.

“Come in,” she called.

Nathaniel opened the door.

He was still dressed from supper, his cravat hanging loose around his neck. His dark brown hair was disheveled, hanging around his face as though he’d dragged both hands through it more than once.

For the first time since she’d known him, he looked genuinely upset.

“Is she asleep?” he croaked.

Laura folded her arms. “She is. I sat with her for a while.”

“Is she… is she all right?”

“She cried herself out talking about her mother.” She pressed her lips together. “She only wanted to remember her, Nathaniel. That’s all it was.”

“I know what it was.” His voice was low, rough at the edges. He took a step closer. “You think I don’t know what I did?”

“I think you hurt a little girl who has already lost more than any child should, because you cannot bear to hear your sister’s name spoken at your own table.” She hadn’t meant for the words to come out so sharp, but the evening had worn her patience thin. “She isn’t trying to wound you by remembering Isabella. She’s only trying to hold on to her before she disappears entirely.”

Nathaniel’s eyes flashed, and he curled his fists at his sides, looking like a large beast in the firelight from the hearth behind him.

“You think I don’t want to hold on to her too?” he snapped. “You think it doesn’t claw at me every single day, having her look back at me from the child’s face? To know that I couldn’t save her, that I wasn’t there, that I was too late by the time I—” He broke off, jaw working, and turned away from her. “You know nothing of what happened to my sister. Do not presume to lecture me on how I ought to grieve her.”

Laura winced, her heart clenching at his pain. She felt awful, truly. But she also couldn’t leave the rift between him and his niece unbridged.

“Then tell me now, Nathaniel,” she said quietly, stepping closer. “Tell me what happened, instead of shutting every door the moment her name comes near it. You cannot keep locking her out of this castle, Nathaniel. She already lives in it, in every room, whether you say her name or not. It is all right…”