“You love her very deeply,” she whispered.
Greyson’s breath hitched. “Yes.”
“Then she still has something to hold onto,” Hazel said. “Even if she cannot always show it.”
His eyes flicked to hers, startled by the certainty in her tone. And his next words caught her completely by surprise.
“I… am glad you are here… for her.”
It was not a grand confession. It was not emotional, not even fully deliberate. But Hazel felt warmth bloom in her chest all the same.
“I am glad too,” she said softly.
Greyson’s gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer, as if trying to understand something new and unsettling inside himself. The words hung between them, delicate as lace, fragile as breath.
“Here,” he offered her the books.
She reached out and accepted the books. “Thank you.”
Then, almost abruptly, he stepped back.
“Goodnight, Hazel,” he said.
Hazel felt the retreat into politeness, into safety. She understood it. It made the small, new ache beneath her ribs no less sharp.
“Goodnight, Greyson,” she whispered.
Greyson inclined his head in a gesture that was formal yet strangely intimate in the quiet corridor. He hesitated, as though something inside him tugged, begging him to stay. Then he turned.
When he disappeared around the corner, Hazel closed her chamber door gently behind her. She leaned back against it, with the books pressed to her chest.
She knew she should not feel this way, warm and breathless and flustered from a moment that had been nothing more than the exchange of books and a polite goodnight, yet she did.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The following afternoon, Hazel carried the small stack of books against her chest as she made her way down the familiar corridor toward the Dowager Duchess’ sitting room.
She paused at the door, steadied her breath, and knocked lightly. A maid opened the door and stepped aside, giving Hazel a grateful nod before leaving the two of them alone.
The Dowager was sitting in her usual chair by the window, with a shawl tucked neatly around her narrow shoulders. As usual, her gaze drifted along the gardens outside. Hazel expected the familiar distant fog in her eyes, but as soon as she stepped into the room, something changed.
The Dowager’s gaze shifted toher.And then, a smile bloomed across her frail features. It was small, almost as if the woman had forgotten how to do it, but it was unmistakably real.
Hazel returned the smile. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
The Dowager made no sound, but her fingers lifted ever so slightly from her lap, as though beckoning Hazel closer.
Hazel hurried to her side. “I’ve brought you something.”
She lifted the top book and placed it gently into the Dowager’s hands. The older woman’s thin, trembling fingers closed around it with surprising care. Her thumb brushed the embossed title, lingering there as if reacquainting herself with an old friend.
Hazel’s breath caught. She knelt a little to meet the Dowager’s eyes. “You remember this one as well, don’t you?”
The Dowager didn’t nod, but she didn’t need to. Her soft sigh, the way her lips curved, the slow blink of recognition… Hazel read every emotion as clearly as if they’d been spoken aloud.
Hazel set the remaining books on the small table beside her. “We brought several for you. You may choose whichever you like.”
At the wordwe,the Dowager’s gaze flickered.
