“Youcan?” Oliver marveled.
They took their seats and waited for their plates to be filled. Oliver stood twice, trying to drag his chair closer to Freddy’s, staring up at him with the kind of reverence that Freddy knew he did not quite deserve.
To make things even, he got up too, scooting the chairs the rest of the way together, until the legs were touching.
Patricia did not comment, though she wore a little smile throughout.
“So,” Freddy said, looking down at his boy, “what story were you reading this morning?”
Oliver pulled a face. “It was about robbers.”
“Highwaymen,” Patricia corrected with an arch of her tawny brow. “Noble ones.”
“Noble highwaymen?” Freddy repeated with a knowing look at his mother. “What exactly were you reading to him?”
“A story,” she returned, coloring. “I … only the innocent parts.”
“About robbing,” Oliver clarified helpfully.
“I hear you have favorite stories of your own,” Freddy said, dropping a hand on the boy’s head, which was warm from the beams of sunlight. “The Witch and the Stone King? That is one of my favorites too.”
“It is?” Oliver marveled, as though he’d just been honored beyond measure. “Have you everseenthe Stone King? I have! I don’t remember going, though. I was still little.”
“Oh, you were little,” Freddy said with a solemn nod. “A very long time ago, then.”
Oliver nodded, reaching forward to spear a bit of breakfast sausage on his fork. “Very long,” he agreed.
“I went when I was little too,” Freddy said thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t mind going again, in fact. Perhaps we can go togethersometime, if the idea pleases you. I should like to see the stone army again.”
“Now, that is a thought,” said Patricia, tapping at the rim of her teacup with a fingernail. “We have all these guests to entertain, and it is not a long trip. Perhaps a group outing?”
“Do they all know the story?” Oliver asked with obvious skepticism. “Do they know?”
“They probably don’t, in fact,” Freddy said, raising his brows. “So we’ll have to tell them. Do you know it by heart?”
Oliver nodded so emphatically, his little body almost tipped forward off the chair. “Yes!”
“Well, then we’ll have a rapt group!” Freddy said with a wide smile. “Maybe you can practice with me first, if you want to get it just right.”
“Practice telling the story?” Oliver asked hopefully.
Freddy chuckled. “Of course. We’ll get all the details right. Maybe I know a few things about it that you haven’t heard yet.”
“All right, Papa,” Oliver decided, dropping the grape in his hand to reach out to touch Freddy’s, wrapping his small fingers around two of Freddy’s larger ones. “Yes, let’s practice.”
He called you Papa, a little voice whispered to Freddy, poking at the space behind his eyeballs, drawing up the familiar sting that happened when one refused to release his tears.Papa.
Oliver drew in a deep, serious breath and pressed his lips together like he was preparing before he launched into his version of the story. It was a sequence of movements that hit Freddy hard in the throat, echoing his memories of Claire on theContinent, how she’d do the same, shaking her hair and rolling her shoulders before she began to tell him something rehearsed.
It made him smile. It made him ache.
Freddy spent the remainder of the morning like that, over breakfast and stories, repeatedly reminding himself not to cry.
CHAPTER 7
Sometime later, Claire found herself on the floor of the dower house, surrounded by puppies. The quartet of tiny dogs bounded around her, giving tiny leaps and tugging on the hem of her skirt. Occasionally one would attempt to scale its way into her lap and then tumble right off like a little rolling potato.
From across the room, Abra watched, her dark brown eyes occasionally meeting Claire’s with a look that saidbetter you than me.The dog kicked herself onto her side, stretching out her little legs like stiff twigs in front of her, letting her swollen teats rest without any fear of being put to use for a time.
