“Until?” Dominic asked quietly, and a film of blurriness distorted the strangers in the photo.
“Until I was nineteen. When the universe put a very bright light into the sky, a lot too soon.”
There was a clock somewhere in this room. She could hear it ticking, a repetitive dull sound.
A drop of wet touched the corner of her mouth, and she caught it on her tongue before it could fall farther. Blindly, she set the photos aside, reached for the nearest box, pulling it onto her lap.
Something scraped against the wooden floorboards, and then he was there, crouching before her. Her hands gripped the sides of the carton.
He didn’t touch her, but she could feel the warmth and solidity of his presence.
Strange, that the man she’d always considered one of the coldest people she’d ever met could get down on the floor with her and radiate such utter solace.
Neither of them said a word. She listened to his deep, even breaths, until her own came freely and her shoulders relaxed.
Only then did she look up into his eyes, fixed steadily on her face. His black brows were pulled together.
“It was a long time ago,” she said softly.
“Does it feel like a long time ago?”
Her smile was crooked. “It feels like a hundred years ago. It feels like yesterday.”
He nodded, and that small movement wasn’t acknowledgment; it was understanding. Another fragment of grief, splintering the quiet in the room. Memories of his own.
“Me and Rosie,” she whispered. “I think we both know firsthand that love and family is something you’re born into if you’re lucky, but hopefully you’ll also find it along the way. And parenthood, it’s not always the person who gave birth to you.”
His eyes flickered.
She hesitated. “You too?”
A long silence before one word. “Yes.”
As her mind retreated from both the pain and shelter of the past, recentering in the present, Sylvie became hyperaware of her surroundings. The ticking was coming from an old grandfather clock; she could see the antique face now, just beyond Dominic’s left ear.
There was a bit of dust caught in his thick hair.
A muscle pulsed beside his lips.
Sylvie swallowed and lowered her gaze to the open box. There were more photographs inside, mostly of strangers, more official settings and public occasions than candid shots of the family’s leisure time. She studied a studio portrait of the prince, aged perhaps forty. He sat rather stiffly on a bench, shoulders very straight, lips a little tense and narrow. With the lingering remnants of her own sadness tugging at her, the expression in his eyes spoke of desolation.
With painstaking care, she returned the photograph to the box. Standing up, she glanced at the numbers on the Post-it Dolores had given her and plunged into the rear stacks. That section was meticulously organized, and she located an envelope containing a cassette tape without difficulty.
A welcome smile spread through her body as she plugged in the very retro-looking tape deck and slipped in the tape. She could suddenly see the tiny kitchen of Mallory’s first flat, sunlight filtering in through pink curtains, books and plants everywhere, and cassette tapes scattered across the table. Standing on her aunt’s feet and holding her hands as they danced around the tiles.
Eight-year-old Jay already sporting a romantic coif of dark hair and a melancholic expression, rolling his eyes at her taste, but using months of hoarded pocket money to buy her a Spice Girls tape for her birthday.
She sat down slowly at the table, aware of the faint rustling sounds behind her as Dominic continued his efficient search, and pressed play.
As the first piano notes wrapped around her, Dominic’s movements slowed and stopped.
Pulling off the gloves, Sylvie set them down neatly. Leaning her elbows on the wooden tabletop, she rested her chin in her hands and closed her eyes.
There were rare moments when the passing of time, the significance of the clock, the entire world beyond four walls, drifted into nothingness. She existed in those endless minutes in a bubble, suspended only by the music and the rhythm of her own breaths and Dominic’s silent presence. There was no physical connection between them, she couldn’t even see him—and it was as if she could feel the skin of his hands, the steady beat of his heart, the comforting rasp of his fingers sliding between hers.
When she eventually reached out and turned off the tape, she felt the echoing quiet down to her bones.
Her cheeks were wet against her hands. She ran her pinkie fingers under her lashes, collecting the lingering traces of tears, before she turned.
Dominic was standing motionless, looking down at the box he held. When he lifted his head, the faintest sheen lent those dark eyes the endless depths of the midnight sky.
“If it were possible to bottle sound and sculpt it into visual form,” he said simply, and she nodded wordlessly.
Releasing a long, shaky breath as she put her gloves back on, she stood and removed the tape, returning it to its envelope.
“I’m not sure how to translate that experience into a cake design,” she murmured—and honestly, part of her wouldn’t want to. It had been something profoundly, transcendently personal, somehow, as if every note had hung in the air like the most delicate of lace, drawing around her and Dominic and the haunting spirit of Patrick. And whatever emotion in the prince’s life had slipped from his soul and into those piano keys. “But it’s going to be difficult to top that.”
She took the envelope back to its drawer, reluctantly closing it away.
Leaning lightly against a pillar near Dominic, she nodded at the box he was sifting through. “Have you found anything interesting yet?” She coughed to dispel the lingering huskiness.
“Trying to form a task force with the enemy?” He seemed to take refuge in the sardonic, as quick as she was to step back from that sudden, almost overwhelming sense of intimacy.
“What’s that saying about keeping them close?” Sylvie watched as he turned a small velvet box over in his hands. “Don’t worry. That end contract is ours—”
“Ours?” He arched a brow.
“Sugar Fair.” She’d woven glittery strands of ribbon through her fishtail plait, leftovers from the golden anniversary cake. One slipped loose now and she wrapped it around her thumb. “Fair warning, in the final leg of this race, I will sail airily past you and scoop the honors with very little remorse. But in the meantime, if you’re planning to show up everywhere I go, it’s too much effort and a little too Agent Ninety-Nine to sneak around you in covert circles. I’m prepared to extend a level of cooperation.”
Dominic paused. “All right. A complete walkover would be a sour victory. I will also cooperate. To an extent.”
“Very magnanimous.”
“I thought so.” He ran his fingers over the seal of the velvet box, looking for the opening. “And for the record, if you want me to be worried about credible competition, you’re going to have to do better than fondant stars, sugar dragons, and pseudo-magic. It’s a wedding.” He found and popped the lock. “Not their sixth birthday.”
The usual retort was tickling half-heartedly at Sylvie’s tongue, but if anything had magical properties, it was this room. For at least the next five minutes or so, she didn’t really feel like arguing with him.