Of his fierce little hand in hers. His laughter. The way his grief had reached for her without fear. Of the life he had brought back into her days without meaning to do it.
And—dangerously—of Edward. Of the steadiness beneath his restraint. Of the way his silence had never felt empty, only burdened. Of the impossible, unwanted truth that she had finally admitted to herself.
She did not want to live as a ghost anymore.
Charlotte bent forward again and wrote the final lines with care.
I am tired of being a bystander in my own life. Whatever William is planning, whatever truth lies buried with my parents, I will not allow it to remain hidden. Not for fear. Not for convenience. Not for anyone else’s comfort.
She sealed the letter with shaking fingers.
As the candle burned lower, resolve settled where despair had threatened to take hold. She did not yet know how she would proceed. Only that she must.
For her parents.
For Julian.
And for herself.
This time, she would not disappear.
***
The next afternoon, the nursery was filled with music.
Not polished, not perfect—Julian still struck a wrong note now and again, his fingers eager and a fraction too quick—but joyful all the same.
Charlotte sat beside him on the pianoforte bench, guiding only when needed, letting the melody belong to him.
This had become their ritual after lessons: scales, then songs, then whatever wild invention Julian’s imagination demanded. It grounded him. Gave his restless energy somewhere safe to land.
It had worked, too. He had been calmer. Happier. The sharp edges of his grief softened by routine, attention, and the quiet pleasure of being seen.
But today, something was wrong.
Julian’s shoulders were slumped, his usual chatter absent. He played the opening bars of the song they had been learning and then stopped, hands falling into his lap.
Charlotte waited a moment, then said gently, “Would you like to try again?”
He shook his head.
She turned fully toward him. “What is it?”
He stared at the keys as though they might answer for him. “It’s Mama’s birthday.”
The words landed softly—and broke her heart all the same.
“Oh,” Charlotte said, equally soft. “I didn’t know.”
“We always did something,” he went on, voice small now. “Papa would bring flowers. Mama liked the yellow ones best. And we played music all day. Even Papa played, though he said he was terrible.”
Something tight and aching unfurled in Charlotte’s chest. She could see it so clearly: a house once filled with color, with laughter, with sound. A life interrupted and never resumed.
An idea came to her so quickly that it startled even her.
“Then we should celebrate,” she said.
Julian looked up, startled. “What?”
