“Yes,” she said at once, nodding vigorously, tugging him the final step toward the carriage. “Absolutely. Entirely. On purpose.”
Greyson stared at her. “Why?”
“Because it will be a thousand times better for you to see it with your own eyes.”
He thought about his response for a moment. “Hazel… this level of enthusiasm could be either very promising or very alarming.”
“It’s promising,” she assured him, practically glowing. “Oh, Greyson, please… just trust me.”
He looked at the color in her cheeks, at the joy in her expression, at the urgency in her voice that was too big to be contained. Finally, he looked down at the hand still wrapped around his, tender and loving, and entirely oblivious to propriety.
And he yielded, just as he had always seemed to do with her. So, he exhaled, resigning himself to whatever madness she was dragging him toward.
“Very well,” he murmured. “I trust you.”
Hazel grinned and tugged him into the carriage as though she had been waiting her whole life to hear him say those words. He stepped in after her, knowing that whatever awaited him, he knew that he would follow her into the very depths of Hell, if need be.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The carriage slowed. Greyson leaned forward instinctively as he glanced out the window. They were in front of his mother’s townhouse.
A cold spike of fear shot through him. “Hazel,” he said sharply, “is my mother all right?”
Hazel practically bounced in her seat, glowing with excitement that did absolutely nothing to calm him. “She is more than all right.”
What does that mean?
Greyson didn’t wait for the footman. He was out of the carriage in three strides. Hazel followed close behind, lifting her skirts as she hurried to keep pace. He reached the front doors just as Mrs. Atherton pulled them open, and her usually composed expression bloomed into a radiant smile.
“Oh, Your Grace,” she exclaimed, her hands fluttering. “So, you’ve heard! Your mother is?—”
“No!” Hazel cut in, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. She pointed both hands at Mrs. Atherton like an order. “Don’t tell him! I want him to see for himself.”
Mrs. Atherton clapped a hand over her mouth.
Greyson stared between them, pulse pounding. “Seewhat?” His voice came out sharper than intended. “Hazel, if something is wrong?—”
“It’s not wrong,” Hazel promised, taking his arm and practically vibrating with joy. “She’s, oh, Greyson, please, just go.Quickly.”
He was losing his mind.
“Hazel—”
“Trust me,” she whispered.
He froze. There it was, that word again, that request he never once imagined he would hear from her—or be willing to grant. He inhaled, then strode upstairs. He felt Hazel behind him. He pushed faster, up the first flight, then up the second. His mother’s hallway stretched ahead.
If something has happened… if Hazel’s smile was misplaced… if I’ve misunderstood…
He could not bear another loss, or another false dawn.
He reached the door, feeling his pulse thundering in his throat, and threw it open. That was the moment that he froze. His mother was sitting in her armchair by the window, with that same shawl wrapped around her willowy shoulders. Only now, there was a book open in her trembling hands.
And she was…reading.
Those were soft whispers, barely audible, but unmistakably words, threaded together, halting but steady. Her lips shaped each syllable with careful intention.
Greyson couldn’t breathe.
