“The Duke of Crestmore sent me this. A wedding present. I put it in my pocket the day we wed, but I could not bring myself to give it to you then. Because I could not see the future. Yours or mine. I lived day by day. But—” He folded her ringed hand between both of his—“I see my future with you now. And just as I cannot fathom an end to the colors I see in this stone, I cannot fathom an end to us, Clara.” He kissed her, soft and sweet as a spring day.
And in that kiss she could not fathom an end, either.
Only a beginning as boundless as the sky.
Twenty-Four
Red the color of Clara’s hair and gold the color of Alfie’s laugh. They danced around the maypole together, and to any other observer, they would appear just two more bodies in the chaotic whirl of merriment. But to Atlas, they stood out as a yellow ribbon torn from a pretty girl’s head on a stormy day sticks out against the angry, gray sky. Because they were his.
Had he ever felt this happy? This… part of something?
A hand landed on his shoulder. “Brother,” Raph said.
And then another hand on his other shoulder. Zander squeezed. “You owe me a bottle of brandy in the garden tonight for fooling me so long. I thought you’d healed.”
Raph grunted. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Atlas didn’t feel the fear and guilt he’d thought he’d feel if his family ever found out. He felt light and free and grateful to give himself voice for once. “Didn’t want to be a burden. There was already so much to worry about here. Then I show up wounded inside and out when I’d merely been trying to help. I’d made everything worse.”
“Bollocks,” Raph hissed. “I put you to work everywhere.”
“I put myself to work, Raph. Trying to be useful in any way I could.”
“In the stables, in the fields and garden, as coachman and footman and—hell.” A muscle in Raph’s jaw ticked. “I can never apologize enough.”
“I don’t want you to. You didn’t do anything.”
“We didn’t see,” Zander said. “That’s the worst bit. Our biggest failure.”
Raph nodded. “We should have seen.”
“Well, now you do.” Atlas shrugged his shoulders out of his brothers’ holds. “So no pity.”
“Pity you?” Zander smirked. “Unlikely. You’ve found yourself a fine wife who loves you. You’ve won your inheritance. You have an admirable son.” He slapped Atlas on the back. “You’re to be envied.”
Atlas grinned. “I think so too.”
“How bad is it?” Raph demanded, his gaze flicking to Atlas’s thigh. They knew he’d been injured, knew where. They’d just never known how bad it had been. Still could be sometimes.
“It pains me still, but I can handle it.”
Identical snorts from his brothers.
“Atlas?”
The three brothers turned at the same time. Their mother stood before them, rotating a square of paper between her fingers, one cheek sunken in like she bit the inside of it.
She took a tentative step toward them. Not like her to show hesitation. No matter what life threw her, she threw all of herself into it.
“What is the matter, Mother?” Atlas asked.
She held out the paper.
“It’s your letter.” Raph’s voice, softer than usual, softer perhaps than Atlas had ever heard it.
Zander swallowed. “Find yourself a nice quiet, private place, brother. So no one sees you cry.”
Their mother glanced once at Raph and then at Zander. “May I speak with Atlas alone?”
