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“Iris—” Nathaniel tried, reaching for her hand.

“And nobody ever talks about her!” Her voice rose and cracked. “You never say her name, Uncle, not ever, and I think you’re trying to forget her! I don’t want to forget her. I don’t⁠—”

“That is enough,” Nathaniel cut in. It came out harder than Laura had ever heard him speak, harder than he likely intended, the words landing like a door slammed shut in the poor girl’s face. “We are not discussing this at the dinner table.”

Iris flinched as though she’d been struck. For a moment, she only stared at him, tears streaming down her cheeks, her lower lip trembling.

“You never talk about her,” she said again in a whisper, and somehow that was worse than the shouting. “Mama talked about you all the time. She said that you were the best brother. She said that you loved her and cared for her, even when you didn’t know how to show it. She talked about you every single day, and you won’t even say her name.”

“Iris.” Nathaniel’s voice had gone strange, something flashing behind his eyes that looked less like anger and more like agony. “You don’t understand⁠—”

“I hate you!” Iris shoved back from the table so hard her chair nearly toppled, then bolted out of the room, her small feet pounding the hard floor, a sob trailing loose behind her as she vanished into the dark hall beyond.

The silence that followed rang loud enough to hurt.

Laura rose instinctively and approached the threshold.

“Laura.” Nathaniel’s voice stopped her at the door.

She turned back to find him sitting with both hands pressed flat against the table, his jaw clenched so tight that a muscle jumped in it. His eyes were fixed on the middle distance, looking at something no one else in the room could see.

“You should go to her,” she said gently. “She needs to hear from you, not just from me.”

“I cannot,” he rasped. “Not tonight.”

Laura looked at him a moment longer, this man who read to his niece every night he was home and who had just wounded her without meaning to. This man who had softened for a whole hour at this table, but shattered like glass the instant grief walked in.

She understood that he was not being cruel. He was drowning in his grief—had been for a long while—and had no idea how to say so.

She left him there and went to find Iris.

She found the girl curled up on the window seat at the end of the gallery, her knees drawn to her chest, her face pressed against them, her sobs gone quiet and exhausted.

Moonlight fell in long pale strips across the floorboards, and somewhere in the foyer below, a clock chimed the hour.

Laura walked slowly toward her. She sat down beside her without a word and simply waited until the girl turned, unfolded her limbs, and burrowed against her side.

“He’s angry with me,” Iris said thickly, her voice muffled.

“He isn’t angry with you, dear.” Laura wrapped an arm around her and rubbed her back. “I think he’s sad, and sadness sometimes wears angry clothes when it doesn’t know how else to come out.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” she agreed. “Grief rarely does.”

Iris was quiet for a while, hiccupping softly against her shoulder. “I just wanted to talk about her. Is that so terrible?”

“Not terrible at all.” Laura pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “You may talk to me about her anytime you like, for as long as you like. I should very much like to get to know her, even secondhand. Tell me something about her, if it would help.”

Iris was quiet for a moment, considering this with the gravity of a much older person. “Anything?”

“Anything. How about the smallest thing you can think of?”

She sniffled. “She always liked burned toast.” A small, watery laugh escaped her, surprising them both. “Every morning. Cook used to despair of her. She said burnt toast was the best kind, and that Cook only burned it properly when she wasn’t trying.”

“Everyone likes their toast in their own particular way,” Laura said.

“I suppose. I like it with butter,” Iris mumbled, settling further against her side.