"Because loving someone isn't just about the present. It's about understanding how they became who they are." Sebastian turned to face her. "You've spent weeks at Thornwood, learning my home, my history. I wanted to know yours as well."
"There's not much to know. I grew up here. Richard left us, and I became the person you met in London, sharp and defensive and determined never to let anyone close." Harriet shrugged, but her eyes betrayed her. "The girl who played in these gardens is long gone."
"I don't think she is." Sebastian stepped closer, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I think she's still in there, underneath all the armour. I've seen glimpses of her. When you laugh. When you throw bread at me across the dinner table."
"That was only twice."
"It was magnificent both times." He cupped her face in his hands. "I love the woman you've become, Harriet. But I love knowing who you were, too. It helps me understand."
"Understand what?"
"How remarkable you are. How much courage it took to become yourself." He kissed her gently. "I'm honoured that you're allowing me to see it."
Harriet blinked rapidly, her eyes bright. "You're going to make me cry in my mother's garden. That seems undignified."
"I'll look away if you like."
"Don't you dare." She pulled him into a fierce embrace, her face pressed against his shoulder. "I love you. Have I mentioned that recently?"
"Not in the last hour."
"Well, I do. Desperately. Against all my better judgment." She pulled back, her expression half-exasperated, half-adoring. "You've ruined me for cynicism, Sebastian Vane."
"I do apologise."
"No, you don't."
"No," he agreed. "I don't."
They continued through the garden, Harriet pointing out plants and sharing memories, Sebastian listening and storing each detail away like treasure. By the time they reached the far end, where a stone bench overlooked a small pond, he felt he understood her better than he ever had.
"There's more," Harriet said, settling onto the bench. "If you want to see it."
"There's always more with you."
"Is that a complaint?"
"It's an observation. One I happen to find delightful."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "The attic, then. If you're up for an adventure."
"With you? Always."
***
The attic was dusty, cramped, and absolutely wonderful.
It occupied the entire top floor of the east wing, a sprawling space filled with the accumulated detritus of generations. There were trunks of old clothes, furniture covered in sheets, paintings stacked against walls, boxes labelled in handwriting that ranged from spidery Victorian script to Richard's familiar scrawl.
"This is where we held court," Harriet said, leading him through the maze of forgotten objects to a cleared space nearone of the dormer windows. "Richard built a throne out of old cushions. I made him tear it down after he tried to stage a mutiny."
"I thought you said he never mutinied."
"He attempted it once. I put down the rebellion with extreme prejudice." Harriet's smile was sharp. "He never tried again."
Sebastian looked around the space, trying to imagine the children who had played here. A young Harriet, fierce and commanding even then, her dark hair escaping from whatever style her mother had imposed. Richard, gangly and good-natured, laughing as he pretended to be a pirate. The easy affection between siblings who had not yet learned that such things could be lost.
"What sort of pirates were you?" he asked.
