“Very well,” she smiled. “I suppose an outing could do no harm.”
Patience squealed, and Chastity clapped in triumph. Hazel rolled her eyes affectionately, hiding her private, fluttering hope.
When I return,she thought,perhaps he will be back.
She rose from the table, with her sisters bouncing beside her, already planning colors and ribbons and fabrics. And as Hazel followed them out, she felt a strange, sweet anticipation settle deep within her.
Greyson knocked gently on the door to his mother’s sitting room. After two breaths, the latch clicked. The door eased open from within, revealing his mother.
She stood wrapped in her favorite shawl, and her silver hair was pinned neatly. Greyson’s breath left him in a quiet rush.
“Mother,” he whispered, scarcely trusting the sight.
Her lips curved faintly, and her eyes were warm on him. “Greyson.”
The whisper was thin as parchment, but it existed. He stepped inside at once, overwhelmed, offering his arm instinctively. She took it. Her cold fingers wrapped around his sleeve with a willingness that unknotted something tight in his chest.
“You are walking,” he said softly, as though afraid to disturb the fragile miracle. “And speaking.”
She nodded, her smile deepening with shy pride. “Try… ing.”
Greyson closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself against the emotion that threatened to overtake him. He guided her gently toward the sitting room, but she lightly tugged him in the opposite direction.
“To… gar-den,” she whispered.
He opened his eyes. She wanted the garden.
He swallowed hard. “Of course. Let us go to the garden.”
Her hand tightened on his arm. It was the closest she had come to eagerness in years. Greyson glanced toward Mrs. Atherton, who stood at the end of the hall with a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. She nodded her silent blessing, gesturing them on.
Mother and son moved slowly down the stairs, with Greyson matching her tentative steps. Each stair conquered felt like witnessing a resurrection in miniature. The back doors opened to the small private garden behind the townhouse, alive with soft spring blooms and birdsong. His mother inhaled deeply, as if scent and air and sunlight were tools she was relearning how to use.
Greyson guided her to a bench beneath a budding pear tree. She sat with a soft exhale, her hand still hooked lightly through his arm until the last possible moment. He lowered himself beside her. The sunlight touched her face, warming the faint color returning to her cheeks. Greyson could hardly tear his gaze away.
“Mother,” he said quietly, “it is… indescribably good to see you like this.”
She turned her head slightly, regarding him with eyes that were clearer than they had been in years.
“Hazel… helped,” she murmured.
Greyson’s breath caught.
“Yes,” he said softly. “She did.”
His mother reached for a blossom that had fallen onto the bench beside her. Her fingers were shaky, but she lifted it with intention. She offered it to him. Greyson took the delicate bloom between his fingers, swallowing against the tight ache in his throat. She touched his cheek gently, brushing away nothing at all, and everything at the same time.
“You… remind me… ofhim,” she said, then paused. “So… much.”
A shard of old grief slid beneath his ribs. “I am sorry.”
Her brows lifted faintly. “Why… would you… be sorry?”
He swallowed. “Because I remind you of pain.”
The Dowager shook her head, and as she did so, her silver hair stirred in the garden breeze. “Both… my sons… are my loves.” Her voice caught slightly. “Even… if it hurts… to love.”
Greyson looked away. “I do not wish to speak of him if it wounds you.”
