“We must divide our search,” the Duke bellowed. “I will go upstairs; you go to the main floor. If we cannot find him, we will employ more help. Now!”
Without a word, Isla began her sweep of the ground floor, looking in every corner of the drawing rooms, the music salon, and the empty ballroom first. Then, she remembered Oliver’s love for reading, his favorite retreat…
The library.
The room was vast and dim that morning. She walked past the leather chairs and the mahogany tables, her gown making only the slightest rustle as she looked about. She went to the thick curtains, peeking behind them to no avail.
Then, in the farthest corner behind a high shelf detailing ancient and medieval histories, she found him.
He was tucked into the small space where the shelves met the wall, curled up tight and hugging his knees to his chest. His small shoulders were shaking, and the quiet sound of his muffled sobs reached her ears.
Isla sank gently to the floor a few feet away, careful not to startle him. “Oliver?”
He pulled further into the shadows, making a small, choked sound.
“I willnae scold ye,” she promised, keeping her voice soft and low. “I swear it. Yer faither and I were lookin’ for ye, but I just want to sit here for a moment. Can I join ye?”
She reached for a large, leather-bound volume from a low shelf. It was a collection of ancient Greek myths. She opened it randomly, the fine paper smelling of age and pipe tobacco.
“Ah, here we have the story of the god Atlas. He bore the weight of the whole world,” Isla began, her voice flowing over the ancient words as she watched Oliver slowly uncurl. “He is known for his strength. He was a Titan and when the Olympians won the great war, he was forced to stand for all time and hold up the heavens on his shoulders.”
Hesitantly, he crept toward the comfort of her voice. He nudged his way closer until he rested his head against her hip.
Benedict entered the library in silence, his face drawn.
He stopped short.
Isla sat in the corner against a bookcase, her head tilted, her expression soft with peace and sincere care. Beside her, Oliver slept, a faint tear still glistening on his cheek.
Benedict moved toward them with care, every step measured, as though approaching a wild creature he feared might startle. He knelt and eased his son into his arms. Oliver stirred but melted instantly against his chest with a small sigh that caught him unguarded.
Benedict held him close, pressing his cheek to the boy’s hair. The scent of paper, soap, and childhood filled his lungs as he carried him upstairs to the nursery.
He laid Oliver gently on the bed, drawing the duvet up to his chin.
How does this feel both foreign and instinctive? How do I know what to do—as if I’ve always known?
The formality that usually stiffened his frame had vanished, replaced by tenderness. He reached out, brushing a lock of dark hair from Oliver’s brow—a fleeting, clumsy gesture that somehow carried every ounce of love he could never voice.
He stood there a moment longer, watching his son breathe, before turning and leading Isla quietly from the room, closing the door behind them.
“How did you do that?” Benedict asked as they walked down the hall away from the room.
Isla looked at him, confused. “Do what, Yer Grace?”
“In the library. Get him to settle like that,” he clarified, without looking at her as they walked side-by-side. “He was upset by my reaction. A scolding would have resulted in another tantrum… you simply read to him? What did that accomplish?”
Benedict was genuinely baffled, as if she had solved a complex mathematical problem with a simple song.
“I didnae scold him, Benedict. I told him I wouldnae. He didnae need discipline in that moment, he needed to feel safe. He needs to ken that his world nae not shatter every time he makes a mistake.”
“Why did he do that to me? That cursed prank.”
“I think he desperately wanted to make you laugh…to see you smile, have a bit of fun.”
He frowned.
Isla paused then, and Benedict faced her. The soft sunlight shone from a nearby window, making her dark blonde hair glisten along with her soft emerald eyes. She blinked for a moment, and Benedict had not realized just how full and lush her eyelashes were. They were almost as striking as her rosy, pouty lips. Even her scars seemed to only amplify the beauty that was so uniquely hers.
