She smiled, imagining the Dowager’s trembling hands turning these very pages. Perhaps Greyson had carried it back from the townhouse after their visit. Perhaps he thought Hazel would appreciate having it. Or perhaps…
Her heart fluttered again. She intended to read the opening line, when something caught her eye. There was a thin, straight line beneath the first sentence. It was just a faint stroke of ink, barely visible unless one knew to look for it.
Hazel frowned softly.
“That wasn’t there before…”
And next to it, there was a small notation.
Mother always inhaled deeply before starting.
Hazel’s breath stilled.
Greyson wrote in the book.
Curiosity fluttered through her. Hazel turned the page slowly. And her heart squeezed. There was another line, and another notation.
Mother always slowed here.
Hazel’s vision blurred for a moment. She touched the words with trembling fingertips. Slowly and reverently, she turned the next page, only to find another note.
This was the line that made Damian laugh hardest. Mother acted it out… terribly.
A soft, startled laugh escaped Hazel. She pressed a hand to her lips, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. He had written his brother’s name, without fear.
She turned the page again.
Mother whispered this part. She said voices carried at night.
Hazel exhaled shakily. She had never imagined Greyson as a boy curled beside his mother, listening to stories. She never pictured him laughing with his brother, or teasing their mother’sdramatic characters. He had never spoken of these things. He had never even hinted at them.
And yet here they were, written in the margins of a cherished book.
Hazel turned another page.
Damian memorized this passage. He recited it until Father begged him to stop.
Hazel smiled through the prickling in her eyes, and the next page offered a new insight.
Mother used a different voice for every character. It was dreadful. We loved it.
Hazel pressed her hand to her mouth, a laugh and a sob tangling in her throat. She could almostseeit: the Dowager lively and unburdened, with her two little boys giggling uncontrollably.
She turned the page again.
This is where she always stopped reading. Too sad, she said. She’d make us skip ahead. Damian cheated and read it anyway.
Hazel wiped at her eyes. This wasn’t a gift. This was a memory he had trusted her with, a part of himself he had never spokenaloud. A childhood he rarely acknowledged now lay open on paper for her to understand. She could barely breathe through the onslaught of emotions swirling inside of her.
Page after page, the notes continued:
She used to kiss our heads right here.
Damian would try to read ahead, but stumbled over the words.
Mother laughed here. Every time.
We begged her to read this part twice.
