The thought humbled Dorothy, yet it also gave her a sense of duty she had not expected to feel. For some reason, that small, wondrous act...the moment Eugenia had spoken to her when others insisted she would not speak to anyone, had boundDorothy to the girl with invisible cords. She felt indebted, compelled to make her life richer, more hopeful.
In that realization, Dorothy found her reason. It was not for Magnus, not even for herself, but for Eugenia that she wished to make the marriage work. The girl had reached for her, and in return, Dorothy would do everything in her power to give her something worth holding onto.
Dorothy paused before the heavy oak door, Eugenia’s small hand nestled in her own. She gave a soft rap upon it, her heart beating a little quicker than she cared to admit. A moment later, Magnus’s voice sounded within. Gathering her resolve, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
“Your Grace,” Dorothy began, “Eugenia has a new favorite flower.”
Magnus sat at his desk, a scattering of papers in his hand. At the sight of her, he stilled. His gaze flicked from her face to Eugenia’s, and for a brief instant, surprise shadowed his features, as though he could scarcely fathom her presence. Slowly, he set the papers aside, watching her.
“Have you finished packing for our journey tomorrow?” he asked her.
“Yes,” Dorothy replied smoothly, her chin tilting. “But that is not why I came here.” She turned to Eugenia with a small, encouraging smile. “Come, dear, let us sit.”
She guided the child toward the pair of chairs before Magnus’s desk. Eugenia obeyed, perching neatly, her hands folded in her lap. Dorothy settled beside her, arranging her skirts with composure, then faced Magnus squarely. There was a determination in her bearing now, as though she had come with more than a passing remark about flowers.
It was true. She had come to speak of far more, though she cloaked it in the gentlest of beginnings. For part of her resolve to make this marriage succeed lay not only in her duty as Eugenia’s caregiver but in her desire to mend what was broken between him and Eugenia.
The child was still wary of him. Dorothy had seen it in the way Eugenia’s shoulders stiffened whenever his deep voice sounded, in how her eyes flitted to the floor rather than meeting his. Magnus could not help but intimidate—he did so to almost everyone—but Dorothy was certain that beneath his stern exterior lay a man who wished for better. She had glimpsed it, fleeting but certain, in the softness of his gaze when it lingered upon the girl.
Eugenia, too, would flourish under such a bond. Dorothy knew it instinctively. Thus, her plan had taken root. To build a bridge between them, one small step at a time. Her first thought had been flowers. If she could discover whether there was a bloom, a memory, some common thread that might draw uncle and niecetogether, then perhaps there would be at last a place where their words might meet, something to bind.
Dorothy smoothed her skirts, steadying herself. “Eugenia has chosen a new favorite flower,” she began. “It is the hyacinth. She seems quite taken with it. I recalled, when I was a girl, hearing there was some sort of story tied to its name. A tale from the ancients, perhaps? Though I confess I cannot remember it clearly.” She looked directly at Magnus now, her eyes steady. “I wondered whether you might know it.”
Magnus’s brows lifted slightly, the faintest mark of surprise at the question. He leaned back, setting aside the papers he had dropped when they entered, then sat up straighter as his gaze shifted to Eugenia. “Is that so?” he asked, his voice gentler than it often was. “Is your favourite flower the hyacinth?”
Eugenia, who had been sitting with her hands folded neatly in her lap, nodded with such enthusiasm that a lock of hair tumbled forward across her brow. She pushed it back quickly, her lips curving in the smallest, brightest of smiles.
Something softened in Magnus’s countenance. He turned to Dorothy once more. “What story is it you would have me tell? What did you hear?”
Dorothy shook her head with a rueful smile. “Only that there was some tale about the flower’s origin. A Greek name, perhaps? Hyacinthus? It was mentioned once by a tutor who did not think I was listening, but it stayed with me all the same. I onlyremember that there was something tragic in it, but nothing more. I thought, perhaps, you would know.”
Magnus’s lips curved, not into his usual wry half-smile but into something gentler... softer, almost wistful. It transformed him in an instant, smoothing the hard edges that so often marked his features.
Dorothy blinked, startled, and found herself staring. She had seen him scowl, she had seen him cold, she had even seen him weary, but never this. Something in his eyes glowed, distant yet warm, as though he had been drawn for a moment into a memory no one else could see.
“Why—why did your countenance change so suddenly?” she asked before she could think better of it.
Magnus glanced at her, the shadow of that smile lingering before he pressed it away. “It is nothing,” he replied, his voice even.
Dorothy lowered her gaze quickly, though not before her mind raced. It could not be nothing.A smile like that belonged to a recollection, to someone—or something-he cherished. For a heartbeat, she thought it might have been a lover from his past. The thought of it curled within her like a sting. She kept it pressed deep inside, resolving that one day, she would ask him.
Magnus shifted, as though aware of her scrutiny, and directed his words toward Eugenia. “You asked of the hyacinth,” he began, his voice smoother now, low and melodic, as though he had slipped into a different register altogether. “It is no ordinaryflower, at least not in the tales told of old. Its story is said to begin in Greece with a youth named Hyacinthus, beloved of Apollo, the god of the sun.”
Eugenia leaned forward, her eyes wide, and Dorothy felt herself leaning too, drawn in not only by the tale but by the way Magnus told it.
“He was,” Magnus continued, “a prince of remarkable beauty and spirit. Apollo cherished him as did the West Wind, Zephyrus. But as often happens in tales of gods and men, affection can breed envy. One day, Apollo and Hyacinthus played a game of discus, casting the heavy disk across the field. When Hyacinthus ran to catch Apollo’s throw, the wind, jealous and cruel, turned its course. The discus struck Hyacinthus down. And so, the youth perished.”
Dorothy’s breath caught. She had no idea that it was that tragic a tale.
Magnus’s eyes flicked to hers, his voice lowering as though weaving her into the tale as much as Eugenia. “From Hyacinthus’s blood, Apollo caused a flower to spring. Violet and blue, as if stained by grief yet beautiful beyond compare. The hyacinth. It is said that even in his sorrow, Apollo inscribed the petals with his lament, a reminder of love and of loss entwined.”
Dorothy whispered, her voice faint but clear. “That is sad.”
Magnus inclined his head. “Yes. Sad, and yet… the flower endures. What is lost is not forgotten. Something fair arises in its place to remind us of what was once held dear.”
Dorothy shivered at the cadence of his words, at the richness of his voice as it lingered over love and loss.
“So,” she ventured quietly, her eyes on the little girl at her side but her words meant for him, “from grief came something enduring. Beauty, even.”
