"The best sort. We sailed the Caribbean and liberated treasure from evil merchants. Richard kept a log of all our voyages." Harriet moved to a trunk near the window and opened it, revealing a jumble of childhood artifacts. "It's probably still in here somewhere."
She rummaged through the trunk, producing items at random, a wooden sword, a tricorn hat that had seen better days, a collection of glass beads that had apparently served as pirate treasure. Finally, she found what she was looking for: a battered notebook filled with Richard's handwriting.
"Here." She handed it to Sebastian. "A complete record of our adventures."
Sebastian opened the notebook carefully. The pages were yellowed with age, the ink faded, but Richard's writing was clear enough to read:
Day One of the Great Caribbean Expedition. Captain Harry has ordered us to set sail at dawn. First Mate Richardsuggested we wait until after breakfast, but was overruled. The Captain is a harsh mistress.
Sebastian laughed. "He had a flair for the dramatic."
"He really did." Harriet sat down on an old trunk, her expression soft with memory. "He would have been a good writer, I think. If he'd lived long enough to try."
"What would he have written?"
"Adventure stories, probably. Tales of daring deeds and noble heroes." She smiled. "He always believed in heroes. Even when I told him they didn't exist."
"Maybe they do. Just not the kind in stories."
"What kind, then?"
Sebastian considered the question. "The kind who show up… Who stay… Who do small, necessary things without expecting recognition." He looked at her.
"The kind who help their little sister play pirates in an attic, even when they're too old for such games."
Harriet's breath caught. "That's…"
"True? I think so."
She was quiet for a long moment, looking down at her hands. When she spoke, her voice was rough.
"He would have liked you. I mean, he did like you…you were friends. But I mean he would have likedthis. Us together."
"I hope so."
"He would have taken credit for it, you know. Insisted that he'd planned it all along." Her laugh was watery. "He was terrible about that. Always claiming responsibility for things that had nothing to do with him."
"Sounds like someone else I know."
"I don't claim credit for things I didn't do."
"No, you claim responsibility for things that aren't your fault. Different direction, same impulse."
Harriet looked at him sharply. "That's…"
"Also true?"
She didn't answer, but her expression confirmed it.
They spent another hour in the attic, exploring its treasures and sharing its memories. Sebastian found a box of Richard's childhood drawings, stick figures engaged in elaborate adventures, with labels identifying each character. Harriet found a collection of her mother's letters from before her matrimony, tied with faded ribbon and hidden in a hatbox.
"We should ask her about these," Harriet said, handling the letters with careful reverence. "I had no idea she'd kept them."
"Perhaps she'd prefer to keep them private."
"Perhaps. But I'd like to know the story." Harriet traced the ribbon with her fingertip. "I always thought my parents' matrimony was purely practical. An arrangement between families. But these letters suggest otherwise."
"Love can grow in unexpected places."
