“Agreed,” Dr. Sloan said. “I am ready to begin. Mr. Blakewood, you may remove your hand.”
Graham hesitated. Amelia watched him war with his instincts to protect Sam, but he let go and stepped back. Amelia stepped into the hall. Graham surprised her by stepping out shortly after.
“I thought you’d stay,” she said.
“I can’t. I can’t watch them do whatever they are going to do. I can’t watch him—”
He choked and turned away, walking farther down the hall. Amelia followed, sliding beside him and taking his hand.
“Then stay with me. Keep me from losing my mind.”
He looked down at their linked hands.
“There is a sitting room right here,” she continued. “It will be more comfortable than the hall.”
He nodded, and she led him inside.
Petrov came to the door. “Do you need anything?”
“Whisky,” Graham said. “And tea for Lady Amelia.”
They sat beside each other on the settee and Amelia leaned her head on his shoulder. She could feel his stare.
“Please don’t ask if I’m all right. I’m not and you’re not either.”
He put his arm around her. “I wasn’t going to. Sometimes, I just need to look at you.”
Amelia supposed she could understand that. She leaned into his touch.
“If I tip a bit of whisky into my tea, will you scold me?” she asked, her voice shattered with sorrow.
“Why don’t you have a dram with me?” Graham said.
She looked up at him. “Truly?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t before.”
“I’ve smelled it. I never understood how Sam could go on about its flavors of smoke, vanilla, pears, and honey. It’s noxious stuff to the nose.”
He grunted. It might have been a laugh, but if he felt anything the way she did, it was caught somewhere in his throat.
“Take one sip,” he said. “It will burn at first, but then the flavors come.”
Petrov walked in with a decanter, followed by a maid with the tea set. Graham poured a bit in her empty teacup and a bit in the tumbler. He lifted his glass and Amelia mirrored him.
“To Alston,” he said.
Amelia’s eyes watered. “To Sam.”
Amelia set her cup down, as tears slid down her cheeks. It wasn’t the whisky. It did burn, but there was a sweetness to it, too.
“Should we have said goodbye?” she whispered. She did not want Death to hear her words and think he had permission to come take her brother. A miraclehadto occur tonight—she was owed this. After losing her mother and father, she would not accept any other outcome no matter how impossible it seemed.
Perhaps her Aunt Ruth was right and she’d succumbed to hysteria. Perhaps her mind and heart were already too broken and she would never be the same again after this day.
“Or is it too late?” Her question was barely audible.
Graham tucked her close to his side. “It’s never too late. He’ll always be with us. He’ll always be our Sam.”
