Greyson stiffened.
Jasper smiled sadly. “Ah. There it is.”
Greyson looked at his friend, this charming, reckless fool who had somehow found peace and happiness with Matilda, and felt a wave of something he could not name.
“I cannot lose control,” he murmured.
“You will not,” Jasper said. “Because you already know what it feels like to lose someone. You will not lose Hazel.”
Greyson didn’t speak.
Greyson groaned. “She told you?”
Jasper beamed. “Matilda told me. It was magnificent.”
Greyson dropped his head into his hands.
Jasper laughed but leaned forward, although now sincerity was overtaking his mirth. “Greyson… let yourself feel something. Hazel is not your brother’s story.”
Greyson did not respond. All he could think about was Hazel, but for the first time, fear didn’t overshadow the sensation. It only sharpened it.
Chapter Eighteen
Hazel had not meant to wander far.
She had meant only to find a particular footman to inquire about the rosewood polish that one of the maids swore was the finest in England. But one corridor led to another, and soon Hazel found herself in a part of Callbury House she had never visited before.
The west wing.
She paused at its threshold. The light shifted here. Dust motes drifted lazily through the slanted afternoon sun. The air felt still and heavy, as though the very walls were holding their breath.
Hazel frowned. She had never seen the maids move through this wing. Curiosity tugged at Hazel, as gentle as a guiding hand. She stepped inside.
Her slippers made no sound against the long, faded runner. Empty portrait frames hung on the walls, their outlines ghostlyagainst the wallpaper. Several doors stood ajar, revealing rooms covered in dust sheets, with furniture long untouched.
A shiver ran through her. Why was this part of the house abandoned?
She reached the end of the corridor, where one door stood partially open, slightly crooked on its hinges. Hazel hesitated only a heartbeat before nudging it gently.
The room beyond was small. The air felt thicker here, not stale but suspended, as though memories clung to every inch. Trunks lined the walls. They were large, old, carefully constructed things, with their brass fittings tarnished and their lids closed to a hush.
Hazel approached the nearest one. It was not locked. She lifted the lid.
Inside lay carefully wrapped objects, bundles of linen shielding fragile things from time. Hazel reached for the nearest one, unfolding the cloth with delicate hands.
Her heart stilled when she unearthed a painting. Two boys stood side by side in a sunlit meadow, identical but for the faint difference in their expressions. One was slightly taller, and one was grinning a little wider. Between them sat a large dog, with its tail mid-wag.
She recognized the taller boy at once. Greyson was much younger there, smiling and bright-eyed, utterly unlike the man she had first met. This Greyson radiated warmth, mischief and joy.
And the other…
The resemblance was undeniable. Their shoulders brushed in the portrait, and their arms were loosely slung around one another, as though neither could imagine a world where they were not side by side.
She traced the edge of the canvas with trembling fingers. “Oh, Greyson…” she whispered.
Hazel lifted the painting fully from the trunk, resting it gently against her skirt. The boys’ smiles seemed to fill the room, reaching across the years, bright and full of a future that had been stolen far too soon.
She wiped a thumb across the corner of the painting, brushing away a thin line of dust. Her heart ached for both of those boys. She folded the linen back carefully, wrapping the painting with reverence.
