Page 77 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

“You’re smiling at the butter again,” Freddie observed at breakfast on the third morning, his toast suspended at a precarious angle.

Alice set her teacup down. “I beg your pardon?”

“You do it every morning now. You stare at the toast rack and smile at nothing. It’s very peculiar.”

“I am not smiling at the butter, Frederick.”

“You are,” Charlie confirmed, without looking up from his eggs. “You did it yesterday as well.”

Across the table, Freddie exchanged a look with his brother that contained more intelligence than any seven-year-old had a right to deploy before nine o’clock.

That afternoon, she found a folded square of paper tucked beneath the pocket orrery on her bedside table. She unfolded it carefully. The paper was good stock, borrowed from Kenneth’s study by the weight of it, and the drawing had been rendered in colored pencil with the exacting attention of a child who valued accuracy over speed.

A woman, standing beside a sweets stall, her hair drawn in careful auburn strokes that must have required blending two or three separate pencils. Charlie had signed it in the lower corner in his neat, careful hand and had added nothing else, because Charlie was the sort of child who understood that some offerings required no commentary and that the giving was itself the point.

She placed the drawing beside the orrery, where she could see both from the bed.

She was still looking at it when she fell asleep.

She woke with Kenneth’s hand on her shoulder. Not shaking her, but a steady pressure, drawing her out of sleep without startling her. She registered the weight of his palm and the warmth of it through her nightgown before she registered anything else: the pre-dawn grey at the window, the silence of a house that had not yet begun its work, and his face, close and half-visible in the dark.

“Alice.” His voice, low and near, held something she had not heard in it before. Not alarm. Not urgency of the kind that preceded bad news. But something closer to the opposite, held carefully in check, as though he were carrying a thing he could not quite believe he had in his possession and was unwilling to set it down until she could see it for herself.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

“Come downstairs.”

She searched his face. His eyes were dark in the low light, and the expression behind them was one she could not read, which was notable because she had become rather fluent in the vocabulary of his face over the previous months.

“Kenneth, what has⁠—”

“Come downstairs,” he said again. He straightened from the bed and turned toward the door.

She pushed the covers back, then pulled a wrapper over her nightgown and followed him out.

The house was as silent as she had ever known it, the corridors dark except for the single candle Kenneth carried ahead of her, its light catching the edge of each doorframe they passed. They went down the main staircase, across the entrance hall where their footsteps were the only sound, past the breakfast room to the study at the end of the corridor, where light spilled beneath the closed door in a warm yellow line.

Kenneth stopped. His hand went to the door handle, and for a breath, he looked at her with an expression she would later understand as him giving her the moment before, the last second of not knowing, because he recognized the value of that threshold even if she did not.

He opened the door.

The study was bathed in candlelight. Carver stood near the window. Beside the desk, a young man Alice did not immediately recognize stood with his hands clasped before him, dark-haired and lean, with a quiet face that resolved itself in the details rather than commanding attention from across the room: grey eyes, a strong jaw, the long-fingered hands of a man whose work required precision and sensitivity in equal measure.

But she saw none of that with clarity, because between Carver and the young man, seated in the chair beside Kenneth’s desk with her hands knotted in her lap and her shoulders drawn inward and her blue eyes wide and brimming, was Rachel.

Alice’s chest collapsed inward. Not a thought, not a feeling she could name, nothing so orderly as recognition followed by relief. Only a sudden, total failure of every structure she had built to hold the worry in its proper place over the previous months.

The whole structure came down at once, and the raw thing beneath it rose to fill the space, the thing she had been carrying since the morning she woke up and understood that her sister had vanished.

She crossed the room. She was not aware of deciding to move, only that she was moving. And then Rachel was standing, and Alice’s arms were around her, and Rachel was shaking against her chest, smaller than Alice remembered, thinner in the face, her blonde hair loose and unpinned and pushed behind her ears in a way their father would have found unacceptable.

Alice held her and felt her sister’s breath stutter against her collarbone and understood with the clarity of a body that had waited too long for something it needed that nothing else in the room existed.

“I am so sorry,” Rachel whispered, her voice wrecked. “Alice, I am so sorry.”

Alice tightened her arms around her sister. She could feel it now, a firmness at Rachel’s midsection that had not been there before, unmistakable, the evidence of the thing her sister had been carrying in more ways than one.

“You are here.” It was all she could say. “You are here.”