He wrote nothing flowery. He doubted he would know how to write something flowery if asked. No. These were just a few quiet strokes of ink; something that was simple, direct and unmistakably his.
When he finished, he closed the book gently and rested his hand on the cover. Looking at it, he felt like something was still missing. So, he crossed to the cabinet by the far wall, which was a place few people knew he used, for it held items he almost never needed.
Inside were practical things: sealing wax, spare quills, correspondence paper, plain ribbon.
He reached past all those.
His fingers brushed against a roll of pale cream wrapping paper, tucked neatly along the back. It was high quality, not ostentatious or gilded, just elegant and tasteful. Jasper had once teased him that only Greyson Thornhill could make even wrapping paper look judgmental.
He drew out the roll without expression. Placing the book on his desk, he carefully unrolled a sheet. He set a straight edge against it out of habit and trimmed it with a precision that would have satisfied any steward.
He laid the book at the center of the paper. For a moment, he simply looked at it. The linen cover was worn at the corners. The spine softened. The pages carried the faintest memory of his mother’s hands. It was not a new book. But Greyson felt that a gift did not need grandeur to be meaningful.
He folded the paper around the book in smooth, firm creases. He secured the last fold with wax, pressing his seal gently, only until the imprint caught. Then he reached for a ribbon. He tied it around the parcel with a single, neat knot.
The finished bundle looked elegant and restrained, much like him. Yet the knowledge of what lay inside made his chest tight. There was nothing on the outside to betray the truth of what he had done. There was no note, no flourish, no clue as to the intimacy hidden beneath the paper.
He preferred it that way.
Placing the wrapped book on the corner of his desk, he hesitated. His hand hovered above it for a long moment, his fingertips barely grazing the ribbon.
He could still put it away. He could still pretend he had never marked the margins. He could still protect himself from whatever Hazel might think when she discovered what he had done.
But he did not move it. Instead, he exhaled.
She would find it upon her return to her chamber. And perhaps she would understand. Or perhaps she would not.
But he had done it… for her, for his mother, forhimself.
Hazel entered her chamber humming softly, which was a habit she hadn’t realized she’d developed since moving into Callbury Mansion. Her sisters’ visit had left her feeling lighter, and now, she moved with the buoyant ease of someone whose world had begun to knit itself back together.
She pushed the door closed behind her and then stopped.
There was a neatly wrapped parcel on her vanity table. Strangely enough, there was no note.
“Well,” she whispered to herself, “either fairies have taken up residence in the house, or…”
Her heart gave a foolish little flutter.
Greyson.
Who else would wrap something with such precision? Who else would leave it here, quiet and unannounced? Who else would think to place it somewhere she would find it at the end of the day?
She crossed the room, allowing her fingertips to brush the edges of the parcel. It was not heavy, nor large. A book, perhaps, or a stationery box. Or…
Hazel smiled to herself, feeling a bit like a child on Christmas morning.
She untied the ribbon carefully, savoring the soft pull of the silk. Then she unfolded the paper slowly at first, then with increasing excitement as the shape beneath became clear.
A book. A familiar one.
“Oh,” her breath caught.
It was the same volume she had brought to the Dowager days ago, the very book the Dowager had read from, whispering her way through each sentence with effort and pride.
“Did… did Her Grace send this?” Hazel murmured, lowering herself into the chair before the vanity.
The idea warmed her. Perhaps the Dowager wanted Hazel to read to her again or wanted Hazel to enjoy it herself. Hazel opened the first page. The soft rustle of paper filled the quiet room.
