“It sounds like you had a productive afternoon.”
“I did.” Oliver nodded with satisfaction. “Will you paint with me tomorrow, Sophia? You promised, remember. After tea.”
“I remember. And yes, I would love to paint with you tomorrow.”
Oliver turned to Edward, his blue eyes bright. “Uncle Edward, do you want to paint too?”
Edward blinked. The question caught him off guard. “I… I am not certain I would be any good at it.”
“That is all right.” Oliver shrugged. “Sophia says art is not about being good. It is about expressing yourself.”
Edward glanced at Sophia. A faint flush colored her cheeks.
“She is right,” he found himself saying. “Perhaps I will join you. If I’m not occupied with other matters.”
Oliver’s face split into a grin. “You can paint a purple horse, too!”
The remainder of dinner passed more easily. Oliver dominated the conversation, regaling them with tales of his adventures in the nursery, his opinions on which biscuits were superior, and a lengthy explanation of why Sir Reginald the beetle deserved his own portrait.
Sophia, for her part, responded to each topic with patience and interest. Edward contributed when he could, although his offerings felt clumsy compared to Sophia’s easy warmth.
When the final course had been cleared, Mrs. Palmer appeared in the doorway.
“Master Oliver, it is time for bed.”
Oliver’s face fell. “Already?”
“It is past your bedtime. Come along.”
Oliver slid from his chair and crossed to Sophia. Without hesitation, he threw his arms around her waist and squeezed.
“Goodnight, Sophia. I’m glad you’re here.”
Something flickered across Sophia’s face. She wrapped her arms around the boy and held him close. “Goodnight, Oliver. I’m glad I’m here, too.”
Oliver released her and turned to Edward. He did not approach. Did not open his arms. He simply stood at a distance, his hands clasped before him.
“Goodnight, Uncle Edward.”
The formality of it struck Edward like a blow. The boy embraced Sophia without thought, without hesitation. But with Edward, he maintained the same careful distance that had always existed between them.
Sophia’s voice broke the silence. “Perhaps you might give your uncle a hug as well?”
Oliver’s brow furrowed. “Uncle Edward does not hug.”
The words were simple. Matter of fact. The observation of a child who had learned through experience that certain doors remained closed to him.
Edward opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. The boy was right. He did not hug. Had not hugged anyone in years. Had not known how to bridge the distance between himself and this child who looked so much like Leonard, who reminded him with every glance of everything he had lost.
Sophia tilted her head. “Perhaps you could teach him.”
Oliver considered this. His eyes moved from Sophia to Edward and back again. “I cannot reach him. He is too tall.”
Edward’s chest tightened. Before he could think better of it, he pushed back his chair and crouched down, bringing himself to Oliver’s level. His pride protested, but he stayed where he was, his arms loose at his sides, waiting.
Oliver approached him with the caution of a child testing uncertain ground. He stopped a foot away, studying Edward’s face.
“You have to open your arms,” Oliver instructed. “Like this.” He demonstrated, spreading his small arms wide.
