They walked a little farther.
“And my brother, Nathaniel,” he added. “He was the youngest. Barely more than a baby. He had this habit of clutching anything within reach—usually my cuff or Rebecca’s ribbon.”
April looked at him carefully. “You speak of them as if?—”
“As if they are still with me? In many ways, they are.” He kept walking, not looking at her.
She followed silently for a few steps then glanced back at the portrait of his parents, sister, and brother. Theo’s heart dipped every time he looked at his family.
It was this loss that had carved out the solemn shape of him now. That shaped the silence between his words. She said nothing though he wondered what was going through her mind.
They came upon a painting—a stormy seascape, wild and thrashing, a ship caught between waves and lightning.
April stopped.
Theo noticed immediately how her body shifted, how she seemed to fold inward, arms drawing slightly across her front.
“April?”
Her voice was low. “I don’t like the sea.”
“You’re not alone in that. This one terrifies even my aunt’s pug.”
April didn’t laugh.
He stepped closer, watching her closely. “What is it about it?”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “I nearly drowned. Once. When I was small. My parents were trying to stop May and June from fighting—again—and I wandered off near the stream behind our old house in the country. There were rocks. I thought I could hop across them.”
Theo’s jaw tightened.
“I slipped. I remember the cold and the way it pulled. I couldn’t breathe. It was June who found me. I’ve never quite forgiven the water.”
She finally looked at him then, her usual light dulled by the memory.
He touched her elbow, a light pressure meant to anchor. “The sea should be terrified of you, not the other way around.”
That drew the faintest smile.
“Truly,” he said, voice quieter now. “You’ve endured worse than storms.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “You’re trying to flatter me.”
“Would it work if I were?”
“I might let it.”
His hand brushed the inside of his coat, fingers resting for a moment on the folded handkerchief tucked into his pocket. He didn’t pull it out. Didn’t need to. The memory of it there was enough to remind him of what was being risked.
You shouldn’t give her hope.
But it was hard not to with her standing so close, with her shadows laid bare and no pretense in her eyes.
He took another step then paused.
“If I asked you to imagine me with ink on my face and sugarplums in my pockets, would it ruin the very grave impression I’ve made thus far?”
April laughed, the sound soft and welcome. “Entirely. I’m afraid I’d never again be able to take you seriously in a cravat.”
