“Yes!”
A soft huff escaped Raph. Pamela and Camelia glanced at him.
“What is it, Father? Can you tell me more about her?”
Raph managed a small smile. “It’s nothing.”
“Tell me, please?” Pamela pressed her hands together as if praying for more stories of her beloved mother, and it broke Camelia’s heart even more.
“She was a terrible artist, at first,” Raph said roughly. “Once she drew me on a horse with my head the size of a pumpkin. And she insisted it was ‘artistic proportion.’”
Pamela’s laugh bubbled up, real and startling. Camelia’s eyes stung with unshed tears as she watched the girl break out of her shell completely.
“She drew me too.” Pamela looked at Camelia with the biggest grin.
“She did?” Camelia cocked her head, thinking how it was possible for Josephine to draw Pamela when she hadn’t spent time with her.
“Yes, she drew a baby riding a pony backward and said it was prophetic.”
Camelia’s heart squeezed. “I would love to see that one.”
Pamela turned fully to Raph, emboldened. “What else, Father? Please. Anything.”
Raph’s fingers tightened around his fork. For a moment, Camelia thought he would retreat behind his walls again. But then, he exhaled, slow and shaky.
“She used to sing when she rode,” he revealed. “Off-key, always, because it helped her get over her fear.”
“What songs did she sing?”
“I can’t remember them all, but there was one that stuck with me. Some bawdy hunting song she’d learned from the grooms. It scared the birds for miles.” His gaze softened, fixed somewhere beyond the candles. “She never walked when she could run. Never cried if she could laugh louder. She burned bright, Pamela. Too bright for the world we gave her.”
Pamela’s eyes glistened, but her smile was radiant. “I think I would have loved her.”
Raph’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She would have loved you beyond reason.”
Camelia watched them and felt the poison in her veins recede, just a little. The candles still burned too hot, the air still crackled, but for one fragile moment, the dining room was big enough to hold all their ghosts.
Pamela leaned forward, breathless, her eyes shining with intrigue. “Father… you haven’t told me how you met her. What was Mother truly like with you?”
Camelia’s gaze flicked to Raph.
Raph set his wine glass down, buying time. “Your mother was a lady in every sense of the word,” he said, his voice measured and almost gentle. “She was graceful, kind, and she had a fire in her. Any man would have counted himself blessed to have her in his life, even for a moment.”
Pamela blinked, the answer drifting past her like smoke. Her brow creased in gentle confusion. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it again and simply nodded, accepting the half-truth because it came from him.
A heavy beat of silence settled over the table.
Then, Pamela lifted her chin and almost shyly asked, “And what can you tell me about my father?”
Raph froze.
Camelia’s fork slipped from her fingers and hit the plate with a sharp, metallic clang that rang through the room like a gunshot.
“What do you mean?” Raph asked hoarsely.
Pamela met his eyes steadily, though she was afraid. “Myrealfather. The one whose blood I carry.”
“Pamela,” Raph said, a deep frown creasing his brow. “I am your father. Why would you question that?”
