"Yes."
"Even now?"
"Yes."
His gaze dropped. "I still miss Mama."
"I know."
"I don't want to forget."
"You won't."
"Everyone else did."
"No," Claudia's voice remained steady. "They simply learned how to carry her differently."
For the first time, Baron reached for her hand. Only briefly, only two seconds. But he did it.
And standing unnoticed in the doorway, Prince Wolfrick saw everything. He saw the tiny hand, the trust, the quiet, the impossible. His son hadn't voluntarily touched another adult since the Duchess died. Not once. Not until Claudia Rosetta.
Something dangerous shifted inside him. Hope. Hope was treacherous. Hope demanded vulnerability. Hope reopened wounds. He hated it instantly. And yet, he couldn't look away.
That evening, the family portrait gallery stood silent beneath candlelight. Claudia wandered slowly through generations of Ashbornes, faces immortalized in oil. Dukes, duchesses, children, legacies.
Baron stopped before one portrait. A beautiful woman seated beside a piano.
"You look at this one often."
"My mother."
The Duchess's painted smile seemed warm, alive.
"She was beautiful."
"Everyone says that."
"What do you say?"
Baron's shoulders lifted. "I think she smelled like lavender."
Claudia smiled. "That sounds important."
"It is." A long pause followed. "Then I don't remember her voice very well anymore." His confession nearly shattered her. "You remembered the lullaby."
"Only pieces."
"Pieces count."
He stared upward. "Do you think she'd be disappointed in me?"
"No."
"You don't know."
"I know mothers. She loved you very much."
Baron swallowed. "I miss being somebody she knew."
Claudia opened her mouth. A sudden crash echoed through the gallery. The portrait tilted violently, then fell. Glass shattered. Baron jumped. Servants shouted. Footsteps thundered. Prince Wolfrick appeared instantly.
"Baron, are you—"
"I'm fine."
Everyone froze because beneath the broken frame, something protruded, hidden inside the wall behind the portrait, wrapped carefully in aged ribbon: a bundle of letters, dust-covered, forgotten.
The Duke stared. His face lost all color. "No." His whisper barely existed. He knelt, hands trembling.
Baron moved closer. "What is it?"
Wolfrick unfolded the top page. His breathing stopped because written across elegant ivory paper in unmistakable handwriting were four devastating words:
*To my dearest Baron.*
The Duchess's letters, hidden for years, waiting. And suddenly, everything Claudia Rosetta thought she understood about Ashborne Hall began to unravel.
---
There are some discoveries that bring comfort: old photographs, forgotten lullabies, pressed flowers tucked inside books. And then there are discoveries that rearrange the foundations beneath your feet. The Duchess's letters belonged to the second kind.
The library doors remained closed for hours. No servants entered. No tea was brought. No interruptions permitted. Only Prince Wolfrick, Baron, and Claudia Rosetta.
The first letter trembled slightly in Wolfrick's hands. Baron sat rigid beside him. Claudia remained quietly nearby, not intruding. Present.
The Duchess's elegant handwriting flowed across the page.
*My dearest Baron, if you are reading this, then life has unfolded in ways I prayed it would not. You must know first that you were loved before you drew your first breath, and shall remain loved long after mine has ceased.*
Baron's small fingers curled into fists. Wolfrick stopped reading. His voice had fractured. He stared at the paper, unable to continue. For a long moment, the mighty Winter Duke looked utterly lost.
Baron whispered, "Please."
His father closed his eyes, then tried again.
*You will be told many things about strength. People will mistake silence for courage, control for wisdom, distance for dignity. Do not believe them.*
The Duke stopped breathing because those words felt addressed not merely to Baron, but to him.
Baron lowered his head. "Keep reading."
Wolfrick swallowed.
*When grief arrives, and it shall, do not lock your heart away to survive it. Love will ask much of you. Give anyway.*
Silence. The room itself seemed to mourn. Finally, Baron rose abruptly.
"I don't want to hear anymore."
"Baron—"
"I said, no!"
The boy bolted from the library. Footsteps echoed down distant corridors. Wolfrick surged to his feet, but Claudia gently spoke. "Wait."
His eyes snapped toward her. "My son is upset."
"Yes."
"You expect me to let him run?"
"No." She folded her hands. "I expect you to consider why."
He stared. "What are you suggesting?"
"That Baron spent four years believing everyone wanted him to forget his mother." Claudia chose her next words carefully. "And now she's speaking directly to him."
The Duke's jaw tightened. "He should be grateful."
"Children aren't grateful before they are safe."
"What exactly does that mean?"
"It means grief arrives differently for the young." A pause. "They revisit it. They retreat from it. They circle it. He isn't rejecting her memory." Her voice softened. "He's terrified of losing it again."
Silence settled heavily between them. Then, Wolfrick said quietly, "I thought removing reminders would protect him."
Claudia met his gaze. "Did it protect you?"
The question struck like lightning. The Duke looked away because suddenly he remembered locking the piano, removing portraits, avoiding conversations, pretending absence hurt less than remembrance. He'd called it strength. For the first time in years, Prince Wolfrick wondered whether grief had made him cruel.
---
Three days later, London discovered Claudia Rosetta existed. Aristocratic society rarely moved quickly unless gossip was involved. Then it moved faster than a wildfire.
"The Duke's new governess remains employed."
"Apparently, the heir speaks to her."
"They say she reads with him."
"Imagine, a spinster of thirty-seven."
"Surely temporary."
Unless the whispers multiplied. At Lady Fenwick's afternoon tea, women leaned together beneath crystal chandeliers.
"Have you seen her? Perfectly ordinary. Plain. One cannot imagine the Duke noticing such a woman."