Oliver looked up with those grave blue eyes.
Nathaniel moved behind him and lightly steadied him by both shoulders. The three women arranged themselves several feet away on the rug, kneeling in a graceful half-circle with open arms and encouraging smiles. Madeline in red. Audrey in champagne satin. Sloane in emerald silk.
Grace remained in the far right corner by the sideboard, still holding the dessert plates, not participating.
Nathaniel looked down at his son.
Then he lifted one hand and pointed toward the three women.
“Go on, Oliver… who do you love most? Go to her.”
For one suspended second, Oliver stood on his own feet, facing the women.
Then he took a step.
Small.
Unsteady.
Impossible.
Nathaniel’s breath caught.
Oliver took another step straight toward the women, his arms slightly lifted for balance, his mouth open in concentration.
Madeline leaned forward, certain now, her red gown spreading around her like a flower.
“Come here, darling.”
Oliver kept walking.
Audrey’s hands opened wider. Sloane’s smile sharpened. Madeline’s eyes flicked, just once, toward Nathaniel to make sure he saw what she believed was about to happen.
Oliver reached the middle of the rug.
Then he stopped.
His head turned.
Not toward Madeline.
Not toward Audrey.
Not toward Sloane.
Toward the far right corner.
Toward Grace.
The room seemed to tilt.
Oliver looked at her, and his whole face changed.
Recognition.
Relief.
Home.
He turned his body fully to the right, awkward but unmistakable, and started walking in that new direction.
Grace froze.
The dessert plates trembled in her hands.
She had not called him. Had not moved toward him. Had not done anything except stand there in the corner where a servant was supposed to stand.
Oliver came anyway.
Grace quickly lowered the plates to the sideboard, but one spoon slipped loose and hit the floor with a tiny silver sound.
“No, no—Oliver…” she whispered, dropping to her knees as he reached her.
He stumbled into her arms.
Grace caught him against her chest before his knees buckled. Oliver did not cry. He laughed—a tiny breathless laugh—and clung to her with total trust, his fingers closing in the plain black fabric of her service dress.
The room went silent.
Madeline remained kneeling with her mouth open, shock stripping the polish from her face. Audrey lifted both hands to her head in disbelief, as if the scene had personally betrayed her. Sloane froze with a tight, stunned expression, her perfect composure pulled thin enough to crack.
Nathaniel stood in the middle of the rug, staring at Grace and Oliver.
Not at the women.
Not at the chandelier.
At his son, folded into the arms of the one person in the room who had not asked to be chosen.
Grace looked up, horrified.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Reed. I didn’t call him. I swear I didn’t—”
