Page 14 of Thrones We Steal

“Do you still think about him?”

He’s holding a framed photo of me and my dad, taken at our favorite spot in Herrington Forest, the pine trees providing the perfect backdrop for the photo. For my fifteenth birthday, he had planned a special picnic for the two of us, complete with champagne and my favorite cheddar from Le Comptoir du Fromage in Paris. We’d asked a stranger to take that photo. I can still see her green souvenir T-shirt flapping in the breeze, Wesbourne across the front in big blocky letters.

Little did either of us know the brain tumor was already forming that would snatch him from me less than a year later.

“All the time,” I whisper.

They say time heals all wounds. It’s a lie. He’s been gone nine years, and sometimes I still come downstairs, expecting to find him in his dressing gown and slippers, reading the newspaper right here in this chair. The shock of finding the room empty, even his scent vanished, is enough to drag me under waves of grief all over again.

Henry’s eyes catch mine and, if he was anyone else, I would say concern crosses them before he turns away. He pulls a volume of fairy tales from the bookcase and flips through it. “Do you still read these?”

“Not really.”

I look down before he can see the tears in my eyes. It was our favorite Sunday tradition: popcorn and fairy tales in front of the fire, my dad’s baritone altering for each new character in the story.

My fingers entwine the hammered silver bracelet around my left wrist. In the center, two hands clasp a heart between them, a royal crown resting on top. My dad brought it back from Ireland when I was ten. I can still hear his velvety voice explaining the heart represented love, the hands friendship, the crown royalty. An inexpensive claddagh, easily sourced from a hundred different shops dotting the Irish streets, but just as easily one of my most treasured possessions.

Henry continues his perusal of the room, lifting objects and fiddling with them like a seven-year-old with an attention disorder. I release the bracelet from my fingers and try to focus on the dates in front of me, looking for the entry from 16 May 1837, but my eyes keep straying to Henry’s fidgeting like a scab you can’t quit picking. When will he leave?

The room darkens momentarily before the lamp beside me returns to its normal wattage. Henry replaces the antique hourglass he was observing. “I need to go. I don’t know what I’m still doing here, to be honest. Everyone else has probably gone by now. This room is just so interesting, I got sucked in. Sorry for keeping you from—” He waves a hand at my lap. “What are you doing, anyway? Are you working?”

If I can just get him to leave, I can focus on this diary and whatever secret it may or may not hold. “Yes, I’m working. Sort of.”

“It’s Friday night.” He flips over his wrist to check his watch. “Actually, it’s almost Saturday.”

“Great. I’ll be sure to ask next time I need the date.”

“What’s so important it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

There’s no way I could accomplish everything I do if I didn’t stay up late, but this would be beyond his comprehension. “I promised my colleague I’d read it tonight,” I say. I finally locate the entry from 16 May and squint to make out the words. The handwriting is tall and slanted, very common in the nineteenth century. Fortunately, I’ve seen my fair share of old documents or I would have even more trouble deciphering it.

“What is it?” he asks.

“A diary someone donated to the Historical Society. Maisie thinks it will be life-changing, although I fail to see how.” My manners are too ingrained to demand he leave, but why doesn’t he go on his own?

The lamp beside me flickers once and then goes black. Through the doorway, I can see that the rest of the house has lost power as well. I can still make out Henry. The fire dances on his face like he’s a tribe member at a powwow.

“Guess we should have anticipated that,” he says and moves closer to the fireplace.

My lungs cave into what desperately wants to be a massive groan. I can’t very well expect him to leave now, which means I may as well accept his presence. I grab a throw blanket from the sofa and wrap it around my shoulders, then sit in front of the fire and allow its light to illuminate the pages in my hands.

“Aren’t you going to read it aloud?” Henry has found another object to study—this time a shadowbox with my father’s butterfly collection—and looks over at me when I don’t answer.

“You want me to?”

“For old times’ sake. I’ll be the Watson to your Holmes.”

I arch a brow but comply. He settles himself into the armchair I’ve just vacated.

16 May 1837

There was a garden party today. Helena was very fidgety, nearly anxious. I kept smelling salts nearby all day. She seemed especially excited about the ship newly arrived from Ireland. Asked me all manner of questions about it, as though I would know something. I presumed she may have some family visiting, since she is Irish herself, but I struggled in vain to get an answer from her about it.

18 May 1837

There have been a few new hires. The ship from Ireland brought several maids and a footman. A ball was held at the palace tonight. Helena wore her scarlet gown and black diamond choker. She looked radiant.

5 June 1837

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