“No,” he said in his crisp British accent.
“What?”
“I shall not dispose of them.”
His mutiny shocked me. “You have to do it.”
“I am declining this request. Your brother left this box for you. He wanted you to revisit what those bits of paper represent. I shall honor his wishes.”
“Sorry, but aren’t you here for me?”
“Yes, and I don’t believe you are thinking clearly.”
“Thanks for the feedback. Now you’re in my way. Please move.”
His face rearranged into a carefully blank expression. He stepped aside.
I stormed out of the room and across the hall, my momentum faltering at the threshold to my room. My whole body quaked, forcing me to lean into the door frame to stay upright. What had just happened? Grant was the model genie. He didn’t fight with humans, verbally or otherwise.
There must be something incredibly important in the box.
But what I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me.
Or could it?
I backtracked to Sean’s room. My Being stood in its center, head bowed, shoulders hunched, hands clasped behind his back.
“Grant?”
“Yes, mistress?”
The title slapped me. Was it an unthinking response—or deliberate? I walked farther into the room, stopping inches from him. “Why?”
He sighed. “Sean knew that someone would deal with his belongings and that it would likely be you. Of all the things we’ve sorted, he marked only this box with your name. He wished for you to pay attention.” Grant raised his head but still didn’t look at me. “You will regret not discovering the reason.”
I swallowed against the lump of fear in my throat. Those bits of paper would document ordinary moments in our lives, and I didn’t want to go back there. But Grant was right. How could I not? “I’ll look.”
His gaze met mine, his eyes like shadowed pools of dejection.
“I’m sorry, Grant. I don’t mean to be a screw-up.” I rested my forehead against his shoulder. “You’ve rescued me again. Please forgive me.”
“Of course.” He waited in frozen silence until I stepped back.
Shivering, I carried the box to my room, where I slowly sifted through each item. Remembering what each meant.
A Valentine from first grade.
The letters from summer camp during the year our parents thought it would be healthier if we were separated. Yeah, we showed them.
Several scraps of notebook paper we’d passed in middle school, using the weird English dialect that was all our own. We’d driven our teachers crazy.
Next came a sticky note asking him to pick up a package of sanitary products. I shouldn’t have done that to my brother.
Stapled together were three drafts of a history paper that I’d edited for him using a red pen. In the margins were his comments on my suggestions. Reading them now made me laugh.
It looked as if Sean had saved every slip of paper I’d ever sent him.
Finally, at the bottom, I came across an ivory notecard in heavy stock, addressed to me. Inside, it held a quote in his handwriting, written with care. Sean’s version of calligraphy.
