She didn’t know what he had broken.
She only saw someone hurting—
and comforted him because that was simply who she was.
And the way William looked at Lily, so full of wonder and grief, was almost too much to bear.
She opened her mouth to call her daughter to her… but the look on Lily’s face stopped her.
This mattered to her child.
And her needs would always come first.
So Violet steadied herself and turned toward the cottage.
“I’ll fetch what we need,” she said quietly.
Inside, she gathered a small bowl of cool water, a folded square of soft linen for washing, a few narrow strips for wrapping, and the tin of salve she used for Lily’s scrapes. She set everything neatly in the shallow wooden tray they kept for such things and carried it outside.
They settled together in the grass—Lily cross-legged, and William sitting opposite her, cradling his hand gingerly in his lap.
Lily dipped the cloth into the bowl with great seriousness, wrung it out with both hands, and pressed it carefully to his injured knuckles.
“There,” she whispered. “It’s cold first. Then it makes it better.”
Violet’s throat tightened.
William’s eyes flicked to hers for just a moment, and something in his expression softened painfully.
She looked away, collecting herself before leaning closer.
“Hold still,” she said briskly, taking his hand when Lily’s small fingers couldn’t quite keep the pressure steady. “This will help.”
At her touch, a tremor ran through him.
She pretended not to notice, keeping her gaze fixed on his hand as she reached with her free hand for the linen strips.
She tied the bandage with quick, efficient movements, ones that were far gentler than the cool firmness of her earlier words, then released his hand at once.
She cleared her throat softly.
“There. That’s better.”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
She gave a small nod and gathered the salve tin, the cloth, and the bowl, arranging them on the tray with deliberate, needless care. Anything to keep her hands busy. Anything to keep from turning toward him.
She felt his gaze on her, far too close to the past she refused to relive.
She lifted the tray.
“I should take this in,” she said, though no one had said anything.
And without waiting for him to reply, she stood and walked back toward the cottage, her steps brisk and controlled, leaving him kneeling in the grass behind her.
Inside, the polite murmur of conversation resumed as though nothing at all had shifted.
Violet sat, poured tea, nodded at the proper moments—holding herself together with quiet, stubborn precision while her thoughts churned fiercely beneath the surface.
