But then she glanced down at the faint outline of the book beneath her cloak and straightened her spine. She tried toremind herself that she was not a thief, but rather a caretaker. She was a woman who saw someone lonely and lost in the shadow of faded days, and wished to give that someone a small piece of joy.
She had made a promise to herself the moment she left the west wing: if Greyson’s mother loved those stories once, Hazel would not allow them to gather dust in silence.
At that exact moment, the door opened. Mrs. Atherton nearly jumped with delight.
“Oh! Your Grace!” she exclaimed, wiping her hands quickly on her apron before beaming up at Hazel. “What a lovely surprise! And what perfect timing, you must come in at once. At once!”
Hazel smiled. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Atherton.”
The housekeeper ushered her inside with all the fuss of a woman receiving visiting royalty.
“You’ve brightened the whole day, you have,” Mrs. Atherton said as she hurried Hazel along the now familiar hallway. “Her Grace will be so pleased. She’s been very quiet today. It will do her good to see you.”
Hazel nodded, a lump forming in her throat. She hoped desperately that the older womanwouldbe pleased. She hoped the sound of a familiar story would lighten the faraway look inthe Dowager’s eyes. She also hoped Greyson would forgive her someday.
Mrs. Atherton pushed open the door to the sitting room with a gentle knock.
“Your Grace,” she said softly, “you have a visitor.”
The Dowager duchess sat in her usual place by the window, exactly as Hazel had left her two days before. Her posture was elegant, and her hands were folded in a manner that hinted at old habits of propriety. Her gaze, however, was fixed on the garden outside, drifting somewhere far beyond the glass.
She did not turn at Hazel’s entrance. She did not acknowledge anyone. Hazel’s heart ached at the sight. Mrs. Atherton nodded encouragingly before slipping away, closing the door behind her.
Hazel approached quietly, and her steps were swallowed by the rug’s thick weave.
“Good afternoon,” Hazel murmured, though she knew the dowager might not respond. “It is Hazel, your, uhm… daughter-in-law.”
But there was no sign of recognition. Hazel hesitated. Then, slowly, she withdrew the hidden book from beneath her cloak. Its cover was frayed and faded, the once-bright illustration worn to soft smudges by little fingers.
A Voyage of the Silver Tides.
Hazel touched the spine reverently. Her guilt flared, but her resolve held. She went to the small chair nearest the Dowager’s, sat carefully, and opened the book to the first page. The paper crinkled, and it seemed that for both of them, it was a familiar, comforting sound.
Hazel inhaled, then read softly into the quiet room. The Dowager didn’t move… at least, not at first. She remained facing the garden, with her mind floating somewhere Hazel could not follow. She continued anyway.
“…and Captain Alderidge, standing at the helm, gazed toward the horizon where the Silver Tides shimmered like moonlit glass…”
There was still nothing, but Hazel refused to give up and turned another page.
“…the winds whispered of secrets yet untold, and young Maren clutched the enchanted compass, its blue gem glowing brighter with every league they sailed…”
Then very faintly, Hazel noticed something. The Dowager’s head had turned toward her, just a little. Hazel’s heart lifted in her chest.
“…and though the storm raged, the crew stood steadfast, bound by courage, hope, and the promise of discovery…”
The Dowager turned further. Her eyes seemed to blink with awareness. Recognition flickered in them, fragile but real.
Hazel smiled. “You remember this one,” she whispered. “Of course you do.”
The Dowager did not speak, but her fingers, which were resting on the arm of the chair, shifted slightly, as if feeling the weight of the book in her own hands again, as if some long-lost part of her were resurfacing through the familiar story.
Hazel swallowed against the swell of emotion rising in her throat and read on, with her heart full. Every so often, Hazel caught a faint flicker of a smile ghost across the older woman’s lips when she heard a particularly whimsical line.
Halfway through a chapter, Hazel dared to lift her gaze again. The Dowager was not looking at the garden anymore. She was looking ather.
Hazel’s voice wavered in the most delicate way, but she kept reading, offering the Dowager every comfort she could through each sentence, each page, each remembered fragment of a once-beloved tale.
When the chapter ended, Hazel closed the book gently and exhaled.
