“Go to bed, Oliver.”
“I’m thirsty.” The boy’s voice came thin and wavering.
“Is there no water jug in your room?”
Oliver shook his head.
Edward sighed. He should wake Mrs. Palmer. That was what nursemaids were for. But the woman had looked exhausted at dinner, and Oliver was already here, and the kitchens were only two floors down.
“Wait here.” He stepped past the boy into the small bedchamber.
The water jug on the nightstand sat empty. Edward took it and descended to the kitchens, filled it from the pump, and climbed back up.
Oliver had not moved. He stood in the doorway like a small ghost, watching Edward approach with wary eyes.
“Here.” Edward set the jug on the nightstand and poured a glass. “Drink.”
Oliver took the glass in both hands and sipped. His gaze drifted to Edward’s hand, to the white bandage wrapped around his knuckles.
“Why are you hurt?”
Edward tucked his hands into his pockets. “It is nothing. Go to bed.”
Oliver set down the glass. He did not climb into bed. He stood there, small and uncertain, his father’s eyes fixed on Edward’s face.
“What is it?” Edward’s voice came out rougher than he intended.
“Can you read me a story?” Oliver’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I woke up, and I can’t fall back asleep. Papa used to read to me when I couldn’t sleep.”
The mention of Leonard sent a familiar jolt through Edward’s chest. He glanced at the door leading to Mrs. Palmer’s adjoining room. It would be easy to wake her, easy to hand this off to someone better equipped for tenderness.
Oliver watched him with those blue eyes—Leonard’s eyes—waiting for rejection.
“Very well.” The words emerged before Edward could reconsider. “One story.”
Oliver’s face transformed. He scrambled to the shelf near the window and returned with a thin volume, its spine already creased from frequent reading. The book Lady Sophia had given him.
Of course it was.
Even here, in the nursery’s quiet, she found ways to remind him of her presence, to slip beneath his defenses, to make him feel things he had no business feeling.
Edward took the book and settled into the chair beside the bed. The chair was small, meant for Mrs. Palmer’s more modest frame, and he felt awkward in it, too large, too clumsy for this delicate task.
Oliver climbed under the covers and pulled them up to his chin, his eyes bright with expectation.
Edward opened to the first page. The illustrations were simple but charming, animals dressed in waistcoats and bonnets engaged in various misadventures. He cleared his throat.
“Once upon a time, in a meadow where the clover grew thick, and the butterflies danced, there lived a rabbit named Barnaby who dreamed of adventure.”
Oliver settled deeper into his pillow, his eyes fixed on Edward’s face.
Edward read on. His voice felt strange to his own ears, softer than he recognized, lacking the sharp edges he used with everyone else.
The story unfolded in gentle rhythms, Barnaby the rabbit encountering a wise owl and a mischievous fox, and a lost duckling who needed help finding her way home.
Oliver’s eyes grew heavy. His breathing slowed. His small body relaxed into the mattress, the tension draining away until he looked like any ordinary child, safe and warm and untroubled by grief.
Edward finished the story to an audience of one sleeping boy. He closed the book and set it on the nightstand.
