And how little they need you anymore.
Hugo studied her profile, taking in the forced brightness of her tone, the rigid set of her shoulders. He recognized the signs—he’d felt them himself often enough.
The particular ache that came with realizing you were no longer indispensable to the people you’d devoted your life to protecting.
You should leave her alone. Let her work through this herself.
Instead, he heard himself asking, “Do you have anything pressing to attend to today?”
She blinked at the unexpected question. “I beg your pardon?”
“Plans. Correspondence. Pressing social obligations.” He moved closer, close enough to see the confusion in her blue eyes. “Anything that can’t be postponed?”
“I… no, I don’t think so. Why?”
Because you look like you need a distraction from whatever’s eating at you. Because I can’t seem to walk away when you’re hurting.
“Get ready,” he said instead.
“Ready for what?”
“We’re going out.” He was already moving toward the door, driven by an impulse he didn’t entirely understand.
“Going where?” She set down her book and stood, following him with obvious bewilderment.
“You’ll see.”
“Hugo, if you don’t tell me where we’re going, how am I supposed to know what to wear?”
He paused at the door, turning back with a smile that felt surprisingly genuine. “And ruin the surprise?”
Her mouth opened as though to argue then closed again. For a moment, she simply stared at him, and he could see her weighing her options—demand an explanation, refuse to go, insist on maintaining the careful boundaries they’d established.
Come on, Sybil. Trust me on this once.
“Give me twenty minutes,” she said finally.
The village plant nursery was a modest establishment tucked behind the blacksmith’s shop, its glasshouses catching the morning sun like jeweled windows. Hugo had discovered it years ago during one of his rides around the estate though he’d never had reason to visit until now.
Until now. Until I found myself desperate to see that lost look disappear from her eyes.
“A nursery?” Sybil looked around with obvious curiosity as they stepped through the gate. “What are we doing here?”
“Building a garden,” he said simply.
“What sort of garden?”
“The sort you’ve been reading about in those medical texts.” He watched her face carefully, noting the moment understanding dawned. “A proper herb garden. With all the plants you mentioned in your notes.”
Your notes. The margins you filled with careful observations about which herbs might help with various ailments.
She turned to stare at him, her blue eyes wide with surprise. “You read my notes?”
I read everything you touched, trying to understand what made you so passionate about healing.
“They’re written in my books,” he said with careful, casual arrogance. “In my library. Of course, I noticed them.”
“But I thought—that is, I assumed you wouldn’t approve of me writing in your books.”
