After a long moment, his mother spoke.
“You know,” she spoke as if reading from a book of fairy tales, “I could never forget how veryimproperDamian could be.”
Greyson blinked, surprised. He glanced at her, and for the first time since they had stopped, the corners of her mouth lifted.
Hazel tilted her head. “Improper, Your Grace?”
His mother gave a soft, breathy laugh. “Entirely.” Her fingers rested on the carved name as though it were a familiar sleeve. “When he was eight, he decided it was dreadfully unfair that the apple tarts were kept cooling in the pantry beyond his reach.”
Greyson felt a reluctant smile stir.
“So,” she continued, warming to the memory, “he dragged a chair across half the kitchen, climbed upon it, and helped himself. He was very proud of his ingenuity, until the chair tipped and sent both himandthe tarts sprawling across the floor.”
Hazel’s eyes brightened. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” his mother corrected with amusement. “He emerged covered in flour and apple slices, entirely unhurt, and announced quite solemnly that the tarts had attacked him first.”
Greyson huffed a quiet laugh before he could stop himself. “He blamed baked goods even then.”
His mother chuckled. “Your father was furious. The cook was inconsolable. And Damian…” She shook her head fondly. “He offered to apologize to the tarts for starting the quarrel.”
Hazel laughed then in a soft, genuine sound that carried easily through the still air. Greyson felt it settle somewhere deep in his chest, easing a tightness he had carried for years.
“He was endlessly mischievous,” his mother went on, her voice gentler now. “He always came to me afterward, contrite and hopeful, as though he believed I could fix the world if he simply explained himself well enough.”
Greyson stared at the stone, seeing not the tragedy it marked, but the boy he had once known: the brother who laughed too loudly, loved too fiercely, and believed life ought to be sweet.
“He would have adored you,” his mother said suddenly, looking at Hazel.
Hazel stilled. “Me?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “You would have scolded him, and then slipped him another tart when no one was looking.”
Hazel smiled, touched and a little shy. “I cannot deny the charge.”
Greyson laughed softly, the sound surprising him with its ease. For the first time, the memory of Damian did not feel like a wound reopened, but like a warmth shared. As the wind stirred again around them, Greyson looked at the two women beside him: one who had given him life, and one who had given him back his future, and felt something settle into place.
His mother drew a slow breath, her fingers lingering on the stone as though memorizing its shape.
“You should go on,” she said quietly. “There is a path along the edge of the grounds. The view over the valley is quite lovely from there.” She glanced between them, with a small, knowing smile touching her lips. “I shall stay with Damian for a little while. Fetch me on your way back.”
Greyson understood at once.
He nodded, the acceptance settling gently rather than painfully. “Of course.”
He bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead, careful and reverent, as he had done since boyhood. “We will not be long.”
“I know,” she said lovingly. “Take your time.”
Greyson straightened and offered his arm to Hazel. She took it without hesitation, her hand fitting against his sleeve as though it belonged there. Together, they turned away, leaving his mother standing before the stone, not abandoned, but granted the solitude she sought.
They followed the narrow path that curved along the outer edge of the graveyard, where the ground was sloping gently downward. The wind was steadier there, carrying the clean scent of earth and distant fields. Beyond the low wall, thevalley opened wide, revealing a patchwork of greens and browns rolling into the horizon, quiet and enduring.
Greyson slowed their pace instinctively, aware of the moment, of the weight and the lightness entwined within it. He glanced at Hazel, grateful for the way she walked beside him without asking or needing direction.
“This was kind of her,” Hazel spoke. “To suggest it.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “She has always known when to let go.”
