She crossed the room and kneeled beside him. “May I?”
He surrendered the brush. She adjusted his grip, her fingers sliding over his to reposition them. His hand was warm beneath hers, the knuckles still faintly scarred from his boxing. She felt him tense at the contact, felt the sharp intake of his breath.
“Loose.” She kept her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. “Let the brush do the work.”
She released him and stepped back. Edward stared at the brush in his hand as though it had transformed into something foreign.
“Now paint something,” Oliver instructed. “Anything you want.”
Edward dipped the brush into blue paint and made a tentative stroke across the paper. Then another. His shoulders remained rigid, his movements careful and controlled.
“What is it?” Oliver squinted at the emerging shape.
“A sky.”
“It needs clouds.” Oliver grabbed the white paint and dabbed enthusiastic blobs across Edward’s careful blue. “There. Now it is a real sky.”
Edward blinked at the ruined composition. For a moment, Sophia feared he would retreat into coldness. Instead, his lips twitched.
“I suppose it does need clouds.”
Oliver beamed. Sophia caught Edward’s eye and smiled. He looked away first, but not before she glimpsed something warm and uncertain in his gaze.
Three days later, Sophia found them in the garden.
Oliver had discovered a family of hedgehogs beneath the rose bushes and insisted on showing his uncle. Edward crouched beside him, his expensive coat brushing the damp grass, his expression caught between fascination and discomfort.
“This one is the mother.” Oliver pointed with authority. “And those are her babies. Mrs. Palmer says we cannot touch them because the mother might get scared.”
“Mrs. Palmer is wise.” Edward peered at the creatures. “They are rather small.”
“They will grow.” Oliver looked up at him. “Did you have hedgehogs when you were little?”
Edward hesitated. Sophia watched from the garden path, close enough to hear but not close enough to intrude.
“We had rabbits.” Edward’s voice emerged rough. “Your father and I. We found a nest near the stables one spring. We watched them every day until they grew big enough to hop away.”
Oliver’s eyes widened. “Papa watched rabbits?”
“He did.” Edward cleared his throat. “He named them all. Ridiculous names. Whiskers and Buttons and Sir Hopsalot.”
Oliver giggled. The sound seemed to startle Edward, as though he had not expected his words to bring joy.
“Sir Hopsalot,” Oliver repeated the name with relish. “That’s a good name for a rabbit.”
“Your father thought so.”
Sophia felt her eyes sting. She turned away before either of them could see, but not before Edward caught her gaze. He held it for a long moment, something unspoken passing between them.
Then Oliver tugged at his sleeve, demanding to know more about the rabbits, and the moment passed.
A week after that, Edward read to Oliver at bedtime.
Sophia paused outside the nursery door, drawn by the low murmur of Edward’s voice. The book was the same one she had given Oliver months ago, the tale of Barnaby the rabbit who dreamed of adventure.
“And so, Barnaby set off into the forest,” Edward read, “his heart full of courage and his pockets full of acorns.”
“Why acorns?” Oliver’s voice was drowsy.
