Chastity gave her a sly, knowing smile. “Contentment is lovely, but Hazel… surely you would wish us love?”
Hazel paused. The image of Greyson flashed before her eyes.
“Well… yes,” she conceded softly. “Of course. But only the right kind of love.”
Patience leaned closer curiously. “And how do we know when it is the right kind?”
Hazel opened her mouth and then stopped. She thought of the books she’d been reading aloud to the Dowager, of romances full of passion and devotion and grand declarations, of happily-ever-afters and noble sacrifices and promises spoken under moonlight.
She thought of Greyson’s gift, the book covered in the quiet, heartfelt marks of a boy who had loved deeply and lost deeply, offered to her as though she were someone deserving of trust. She thought of the way her heart had leapt this morning when she’d rushed downstairs, hoping to see him.
“I…” Hazel began, then swallowed. “I am not entirely sure.”
Chastity raised a brow. “Not sure?”
Hazel forced a small smile. “Books make it seem very obvious. Love conquers all, hearts beat faster, and so on. But life is… different.”
Patience frowned. “Different how?”
Hazel hesitated, turning a length of velvet over in her hands. “Because sometimes love doesn’t last. Sometimes it hurts people. Sometimes it unravels families instead of joining them.”
Her sisters quieted.
Hazel’s voice softened. “And sometimes… sometimes one feels safer not believing in it.”
Patience studied her with wide, thoughtful eyes. “But if we do fall in love… how will we know it is safe?”
“I suppose,” she said gently, “you look for kindness, patience, respect. Someone who listens. Someone who stays.” Then, she remembered the most important thing of all. “Someone who shares their truest self with you.”
Chastity’s gaze sharpened. “Hazel…”
Hazel quickly turned to inspect a stack of muslin. “Yes, well. Those are merely my thoughts.”
Patience smiled softly. “They sound like lovely thoughts.”
Chastity nudged Hazel’s arm. “They sound like feelings.”
Hazel almost fled the aisle.
Greyson stepped out of his mother’s townhouse with a quiet inhale. The crisp morning air settled around him like a fresh beginning. She had grown tired, but not withdrawn. Then, she squeezed his hand before retiring, whispered a soft goodbye and left him with a feeling he could barely name.
Hope.
He descended the steps with more energy than he’d had in years. He wanted to go home. More urgently than he wished to admit, even to himself, he wanted to speak to Hazel.
He reached for the carriage door, already rehearsing what he might say to her, when a too-loud voice called out behind him.
“Greyson! Perfect timing!”
He turned, with his jaw taut but polite enough, and found Jasper striding toward him with a grin that suggested he had no intention of allowing Greyson to leave quickly.
“Jasper,” Greyson said, with one hand still gripping the carriage door. “I am in some haste.”
“Excellent,” Jasper declared cheerfully. “I shall talk quickly.”
Greyson stiffened. “I just said I am in a hurry. That usually means no time totalk.”
Jasper waved a dismissive hand. “No one wishes to talk until they desperately do. Now, why are you leaving so quickly?” He leaned in, squinting at Greyson’s face. “You look… lighter. Dare I say it, happy?”
