Page 119 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

Aurora gave her a doubtful look. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I was scared.”

“Brave people often are.”

Aurora’s fingers curled into the fabric of Poppy’s sleeve. “I was scared all the time.”

Poppy covered the small hand with her own. “And still you kept Princess safe. You made her laugh. You helped her sleep. You held on until someone came. That is not a small kind of bravery, Aurora.”

The child looked back at the pony. It breathed through its nose, warm and patient.

“I like him better when I am not on him,” Aurora said.

“Then we shall like him from the ground.”

A small smile appeared, quick and shy. Aurora touched the pony’s neck again. This time she did not pull away.

On the blanket, Princess made a noise of protest at being left out of the conversation. Poppy turned her head and found the baby rolling to one side, reaching for a corner of the blanket with intense determination.

“You see?” Poppy said. “Your sister thinks you are brave, too.”

“She thinks the blanket tastes good.”

“That may also be true.”

Aurora laughed. The sound was still new enough to make Poppy’s chest tighten.

A few days had passed since the household had begun to feel less like a collection of rooms and more like a life. There had been no formal declaration of peace, no sudden ease, no simple answer to all that had come before. But the girls had slept better. Hector had come to breakfast. Poppy had stopped listening for the closing of doors as if each one were a verdict.

Aurora moved back toward Princess and kneeled with great importance beside the blanket. “There is a tiny insect.”

“Is there?”

“It wants to climb on her.”

“Then you must defend her.”

Aurora bent close, her face solemn. “Go away, tiny insect. She is too little for you.”

Princess waved one hand in the air, untroubled by the threat.

Poppy sat again, smoothing her skirts beneath her. The day was mild, the air carrying the warm animal scent of the stables and the cut grass beyond. She could hear the soft flick of tails, the occasional stamp of a hoof, the faint creak of leather from within the stable yard.

Aurora watched the insect depart, then said without looking up, “I am not scared of him anymore.”

Poppy stilled. “Of whom?”

“Uncle Hector.”

The name landed gently and deeply at once.

“No?” Poppy asked.

Aurora shook her head. “He is not as frightening when he is quiet.”

Poppy pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. “He is quiet a great deal.”