Chapter Six

The Haunting Begins

Theodosia couldn’t pace around the parlor to the nursery to her chambers and back again, and not upset her rattled household. Her prior thirty treks surely had worn a path through the rugs and dragged scratches across the polished floors. The doctor would arrive to Tradenwood in another three hours. One hundred and eighty long minutes to wait. Then she’d know if Philip’s earache was a tooth thing or more progress in his hearing loss.

As she came from the narrow hall, Pickens stepped into her path. A grin that said caught you disappeared from his aged, battle-hardened cheeks. “Ma’am, Cook has been asking for your final approval. May I tell her you will see her after your next round of pacing?”

The festival… How could she concentrate on that after rocking Philip, hoping and praying that his tear-stained eyes would finally close in sleep? “Can… May it wait until tomorrow?”

The butler nodded. “No delay longer than tomorrow. She’ll need to inform the butcher of cuts you’ll need for the celebration at month’s end.”

Yes, festival preparation. Another thing to fret about. She wrung her hands then dropped them to her sides. “Thank you for keeping me on task. I’m not moving so fast today.”

Pickens’s brow rose. “You could outpace the fittest Olympian. You should take a drive. I’ve taken the liberty of having your gig pulled around. Visit the fields. You’ll be refreshed by the time the doctor arrives.”

“But Philip? He might need me.”

“The boy is sleeping. The laudanum will keep him out of pain until the doctor is here.” He picked up her gloves and hat, handing them to her as he shuttled her to the door. “Have a pleasant ride.”

She started tugging on one glove then the other. They were close-fitting kid gloves, soft and thin. She’d be able to feel the power of her mount. Then she could pretend to be in control of something. “I’ll hurry. I don’t want to be late and miss being needed.”

The butler handed her a knit shawl, acres of creamy stitches. “Master Cecil always said, it isn’t about speed. It’s about how you run the race.”

Pickens was a dear and he must’ve studied Mathew, for he knew how to nudge her in the way she should go. His steady force, his apt words, had helped guide her these months without Mathew.

Waving off a groom, Pickens held the reins as she took her seat. “Go, Mrs. Cecil. Enjoy your ride. We’ll see you in an hour or so.”

She nodded. “Thank you. I’ll stick to the paths so if I need to be… Thank you, Pickens. I will run this race the best I can.”

He set the thick reins into her palm. “That’s all anyone can ask, ma’am. It’s all Mr. Cecil expected. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

He turned and went back into Tradenwood.

Theodosia closed her eyes for a moment, then whipped the leathers, forcing the gig forward. The small buggy was her favorite. With one horse, her fastest one, she could fly through the fields.

Breathing the fresh air, free of ointments and laudanum tonics, she let her heart smile. The doctor would fix Philip. He would be well. Theodosia had to hold on to that thought, as she did the reins.

Her horse, Willow, leaped over a gully, making the wheels bang hard, but Theodosia didn’t care. This was as close to freedom as she could grasp and she relished it.

She’d have to do something nice for Pickens. He was such a dear. If a platonic marriage of convenience could be had with the butler, she was almost tempted to suggest it. Pity Pickens was as old as dirt and his position wouldn’t have any sway with the Court of Chancery. Maybe she should get his opinion on the squire or the new suitor, the baron. Well, the baron hadn’t replied yet, but he might. Finding someone as understanding as Mathew or Pickens—the hope of it was all she had.

Settling into her gig, she flew over the hill and through the fields. The glass greenhouses she’d had Mathew install glistened in the sun. No one could grow more exotic plantings than Cecil Farms. Zipping up the trail, she waved to a few of the tenants still out picking.

The morning was the best time to gather the flowers, unless you were slow or sickly. Theodosia used to be good at it, and she’d get on her small gig, the one financed by her mother, and make it to the Covent Garden area to sell flowers to the ton by ten. Those harried days had been so long ago.

A smile freed her lip from being chewed, and she slowed to enjoy the contours of the blooming fields. Rows of lavender waved, alongside sweet pink roses. The air felt crisp, tingling her cheeks. The day after a storm was the best. Everything felt cleansed.

Though yesterday’s argument with Ewan had drained her, it had been good to admit to him that she’d loved Mathew and that Mathew had loved her. The poison Ewan’s family had spewed about her had to have marred his thoughts of truth. It did make her chuckle, thinking of the old earl turning beat red over the outrageous sum of money she’d asked to be paid to continue the water rights on her land. He might’ve been more outraged at that than his son wanting to marry a Blackamoor.

Sighing, she let her R’s, her numerous regrets, be overtaken by a mix of lavender, roses, even manure. The blend of scents made a rich perfume. The Cecil fields would always possess abundance. Mathew would like that. Good. The first time today she thought of Mathew and not Ewan. She needed to be in the fields to cleanse her of thinking about Ewan and thunderstorms and his little nursery rhyme songs. Or even how much her son would enjoy them if he could hear the lyrics.

She wanted to strike at her chest and banish this foolishness. She should’ve given Mathew all the room in her heart, but she hadn’t. Ewan was still in there.

Despairing, she pointed her gig to the tributaries that fed all the fields—Tradenwood’s and Grandbole’s. The main artery to the Fitzwilliam’s flowers had been dammed with limestone bricks. Ewan hadn’t lied and Lester was a bigger skunk than she’d realized.

Shutting off the water was wrong, no matter what they had done to her. Lester had no right to do this without her permission.

Driving one fist into her palm, she decided she must do something. But what?

Nothing. If she went against him, he’d take Philip. Lester was his guardian. His word would overrule hers in the courtroom of men. She couldn’t fix this until she and Philip were free.

The same sense of helplessness that made her check on her son every hour for fever invaded her soul. She bit her lip, to hold in the frustration she’d wanted to yell out last night, and stared ahead at the lonely limestone wall. It was as isolated as a widow, as a woman trying hard to hold on to everything.

“Coming to inspect your handiwork?”

She lifted her head and saw Ewan walking toward her. She hid her dismay behind a smile. “Morning. Needed to see this for myself. Fitzwilliams are proven liars, don’t you know.”

“That is ungenerous, Cousin.”

“Good day, Ghost.”

She turned her gig around and kept an even pace. Not slow enough to be caught but not fast enough to show fear. Ewan was a minor complication to her plans, a thorn in her floral arrangement. Lying must be contagious because now she was lying to her soul about Ewan being anything minor to her.

Willow neighed and clomped to the highest point, the place where Theodosia could see all the fields, hers and Philip’s.

Her breath froze a little in her lungs as gratitude fell upon her. These fields had saved her life. She’d met Mathew here when she’d been broken and scared. He had protected her, fed her starving body.

To prove her love, she’d protect his fields as he had protected her and Philip. No ghost or Lester would wrest this place from her. Mathew had wanted it to be Philip’s. Theodosia needed to make his last request come true, for he’d been the instrument to make her hopes true. “I’m sorry. Mathew, I—”

“Morning again, Mrs. Cecil.” Ewan’s sultry voice sounded again, heavy and soothing. “I hate to see a beautiful woman alone in such a picturesque place.”

Her heart skipped a little. Then she remembered. They were at war. He swung a walking stick as if he were on a carefree stroll. But his top hat had been smashed onto his thick black hair. He’d run to catch up with her. She almost laughed, but she didn’t know how she liked the thought of him pursuing her again.

“So what brings you here? Thinking of poisoning the Grandbole fields? Oh, I know. You are looking for that next husband. Am I interrupting a get-together?” He cupped his eyes and scanned. “Your new love is late? You must have quite a few advertisement responses to choose from not just… Who was it? Just a baron? My new wealthy cousin must have others writing to her. A duke in bad straights. Maybe a pauper prince in need of a healthy fortune?”

“Will you forget about my newspaper advertisement? It has nothing to do with you or us.”

“It has everything to do with us. We are family now, Cousin Theo.”

She bit her lip, hating that he knew of her gamble to find a husband. “Stay to the left, Ghost. You don’t want to be on Cecil land. I’d hate to add fines to your fees.”

“Grumpy? Only ghosts should be grumpy. Maybe you need a walk to refresh yourself. You have shadows under your eyes. That conscience you’re suppressing is rattling you. Or is it my ghostly chains?” He held a hand to her as if to help her down. “You need to walk. I don’t bite, much.”

He would notice that she hadn’t slept. How could she, with Philip in pain? But to take Ewan’s hand, and depend upon his humor or anything he offered, that couldn’t be. “I’m safe—I’m fine here.”

His brow rose a smidgen, followed by a broad smile that someone stupid would think charming. He pulled his arm back and wiped his fingers on his bulky black jacket, very different from his smart cut of yesterday. “Yes, you are, and scared of me, too.”

“No, I am not, Ewan.”

He stuck his palm out to her again. “Prove you’re not afraid of ghosts.”

It was dumb to accept his challenge and clasp his fingers. Dumber to let him lift her down to the ground. The dumbest thing was assuming he’d be a gentleman. He crowded her against her gig, with nowhere to run but deeper into his arms.

Brushing a fallen curl from her temple, he made his crooked grin bigger. “Cousin Cecil, have you thought of a more reasonable extortion? Maybe you do have some sense of charity.”

She lifted her hands to push away from him but that would be touching him, something stronger than she. Instead she lowered her hands and braced for whatever he had in mind.

“So tense, Cousin.” He gave her tired shoulders a little press. “Give me a reasonable offer so I can bring you relief. I could present it today and end this little family problem of the water. I’ll assume selling Tradenwood is still off-limits.”

“Yes, and why don’t you rescind your blackmail? I might be more inclined to charity without your play nonsense.”

He clasped her fingers. His other arm came up behind her, smoothing each bone in her wilting spine. “You need to relax, like you used to do.” Changing the pressure of his fingertips, he spun her like a top as he used to do in the rain. “Has your dancing improved? I hear Cecil was rather old. He might not have had time for such trivial things.”

“Let me go, Ewan. This is ridiculous with no music,” she said, between twirls.

Her gripped her about the waist and waltzed her around her gig. “Always music in my head, when I’m with you.”

Willow neighed and kicked her hooves, making a rhythm that Ewan seemed to adopt. For a moment, she let the memories, the ones locked away in her heart, leach out. Closing her eyes, they were young again, sneaking behind the coaching house. Ewan had purloined a bucket of oats for her old mare and had made her sit in the shade as he read her Shakespeare. It was her favorite remembrance next to hearing Ewan’s heartbeat, his lips mouthing I love you.

“Your dancing has improved, Cousin,” he said as he kissed her hand. “But it seems we are at an impasse. I call blackmail protecting my family from the woman bent on destroying it. You call it fines. What would the late Mathew Cecil think of you allowing the agreement between the two sides of the family to dissolve into bickering? I didn’t believe you to be so petty. I remember you caring about people.”

He dared to bring Mathew into this foolishness. She moved away, as if she’d done something naughty dancing with him, and scampered back atop her gig.

“Oh, Cousin, you don’t have to run off. We were getting along.”

Picking up the horse whip, she rolled it between her fingertips, then let the temptation to strike him and his teasing settle down. The old Theodosia didn’t think, always forgot about consequences. She placed the snappy pole across her knees. “I think Daddy’s been feeding you lies. Doesn’t look like he’s fed you much else. You look a little thin.”

His lips pursed. Those blue eyes, big and full of stories and dreams tucked behind his long dark lashes, winked at her. “Ghosts need to be thin. That’s how we slip about. But you’ve eaten well, if your rounded cheeks are any indication.”

Ewan stood on tiptoes, and his hot gaze roamed over her. “And you still fit well in my arms. I suppose getting a rich loving husband was good for you.”

He peered at her again and his gaze seemed to penetrate through her thick shawl. For once, she was grateful for the heaviness of her mourning robes. “You possess a very well-rounded figure. Yes, my cousin must have been very pleased with you, an apt mistress you made. I’m not ignorant to how this love began with Cecil.”

The way he put it made her feel dirty. “Must you be crude? Or maybe that’s what you bounders do. You convince a woman of your love, only to deflower her. How wrong I was to believe the words of a playwright. I love you. We’ll elope after the storm passes.”

He looked down and kicked a rock with his boot. “I shouldn’t make fun of such things. It is so hard to imagine you—vibrant-spirit-filled—with my cousin. They say he was very old. Very old.”

Ewan took the reins of her gig from her. “The strap is not slack enough at the rein ring. You’ll do too much work pulling. The horse won’t go any faster. I’ll adjust it for you, like I used to do.”

She watched his fingers work the straps, sliding fastenings, loosening sections, until it was at whatever tautness he felt was perfect for her, looking after her like he always had. Six years and Ewan still remembered. He had taken care of her, not with flashy things but in the smallest ways—a bucket of oats for her horse, adjusting her gig, a comforting rhyme.

He put the leather in her hands. “Was Cecil good to you?”

An odd question but he sounded sincere. How much did he still care?

A scream came from deep in her fields.

Ewan turned, cupping his hand to his eyes. “I think someone’s fainted.”

He started moving into her lavender fields.

Theodosia jumped down and followed. Which one of her workers could it be?

They pushed through stalks and fresh clippings and came upon an older woman. It was one of her tenants. Dropping to her knees, she fanned the woman’s cheeks. “Mrs. Gutter, wake up.”

Ewan bent and grabbed the picker’s wrist. “She has a pulse. You know this person?”

Ignoring such a stupid question, Theodosia took off the picker’s bonnet and waved it faster and faster over the stricken woman’s countenance. “I know all my workers, and Mrs. Gutter’s a stubborn one. She should have waited another week or two. She’s been very sick these past few months. She should’ve started early morning when it’s cooler.”

Mrs. Gutter sat up and yawned, as if she’d taken a nap. Her ruddy cheeks seemed even redder upon her ashy gray skin. “I thought I was fine, Mrs. Cecil, but I do have a thick head so I don’t listen.” She tried to sit, but fell back. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Give me a minute. I don’t mean to cause no problems.”

Theodosia took off her gloves and stashed them in her pocket. “Silly, who means to faint? May I see if you have a fever? I’ll have to touch your forehead.”

The old woman nodded and allowed Theodosia’s dark hand to brush her pale forehead.

Mrs. Gutter felt warm, warmer than merely picking under the bright sun. “You do have a fever. Come with me. Mr. Fitzwilliam, help me get this woman to my carriage.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Gutter said. “I just need to catch my breath.”

Theodosia grabbed Ewan’s hand and put it under Mrs. Gutter’s shoulder. “We need to get her back to Tradenwood and get her something to drink. I need your help.”

Ewan pumped Theo’s fingers. “I will always be here to help you. My return is permanent. You can count on me.” He held Theodosia’s hand a moment longer then turned to Mrs. Gutter. “Ma’am, Theo—Mrs. Cecil is right. You need to go with her.”

“Let me take you back to the main house.” Hating the pleading tone in her voice, she shook free from Ewan. “The doctor is coming today, Mrs. Gutter. It would be no trouble for him to see you, too.”

Ewan captured Theodosia’s elbow and hovered over her as if to detect weakness. “Doctor? The shadows under your eyes. Are you well?”

She looked down to the rich soil, away from the bluer-than-blue eyes that had sent prickles up her skin when she’d first seen him, first spoken to him, in Grandbole’s fields. Like they had this morning, dancing on the hill.

“Cousin Theo, you would tell me if you were not well?”

Must be the concern in his voice that sent a shiver now. “Fine. I’m fine. Mrs. Gutter is the one who is not. Help me get her to my gig.”

Mrs. Gutter wheezed, but shook her head.

“No, my angel. I’m fine now. My son will be back any moment now with my cart.” Mrs. Gutter gasped and sucked in a huge mouth of air. “He went to water the horse.”

The lady was too big to pick up and carry to her gig. Theo needed to depend on the one man she couldn’t. Swallowing doubts and bitter pride, she asked, “Please help me, Ewan? I need you.”

Ewan didn’t move, and his gaze upon her felt heavier than before. “You heard the lady, Mrs. Gutter. I’m not accustomed to denying one’s request.”

Did he see her as a lady now, not some lucky mistress, or was he talking about six years ago when she’d been stupid and had loved him more than herself. Theodosia put a hand to her bosom. Her cheeks felt heated like she’d leaned over flames. “Mrs. Gutter, I need you to allow Mr. Fitzwilliam to put you in my gig. Your son can meet you at Tradenwood.”

“Fitzwilliam? Never. Leave me to dirt. I’m not disloyal to you, ma’am.”

She couldn’t stop the smile growing. Maybe Ewan would realize how awful his father would be to the tenants, if she sold to Lord Crisdon. She tucked the woman’s hat under her arm. “Mrs. Gutter, you couldn’t be disloyal, ever.”

Ewan’s eyes told another story. They still seemed to be on Theodosia and they held fire. “Consider this an act of chivalry, not disloyalty. I’m sure Mrs. Cecil could tell you the difference.” He lifted the woman in the air as if the portly picker weighed nothing, maybe a shilling’s worth of foolscap.

Theodosia stopped gawking and, in her haste, her shawl dropped from her shoulders and tangled in the bushes. As she yanked it free, it wrapped around her feet.

His chortle from behind grated. “Do you need a little help, my dear cousin?”

She sped up, intending to get out of his reach, but the shawl dragged more and this time she stumbled.

Before she hit the ground, Ewan grabbed her arm, jerking her up. Then he seized her about her waist, pulling her into his chest, steadying her. His baggy jacket hid pure muscle underneath.

He didn’t release her, forcing her to absorb his heat, his light scent of musk, the entire way back to her gig, all while supporting Mrs. Gutter in his other arm.

Back on the smooth dirt road, Ewan released Theodosia then swung Mrs. Gutter into the seat. Then he worked a strong hand about the middle of Theodosia’s back. “Now it’s your turn.”

The ghost levitated her in the air. Hard, lean, chiseled hands hoisted her onto the platform to drive.

“Thank you.” It was all she could muster. He was too close, too strong, and the heat of the day had surely made her weak. How could she keep contempt for Ewan in her head when his arms felt of safety, something she’d missed since Mathew’s death?

All smiles, as if he knew he’d addled her brainbox, he leaned over the side. “Even a ghost can be helpful, but we return to haunting, if agreements aren’t met.”

If not for her pride or Mrs. Gutter’s watchful eyes, she’d let him know that ghosts needed to die painful, horrible deaths. But that would be impossible to do to a true ghost or the wily Ewan Fitzwilliam. He had to be tough, if Napoleon hadn’t done him in. “Nice to know you finally found your strength. Six years too late. Go home to Daddy. Tell him of your big adventure.”

“No, I’ll keep it a secret, but I will take the liberty of checking on Mrs. Gutter. I want to know this doctor’s report, Cousin.”

She gripped the reins tightly and rippled them, forcing Willow into a full run. The horse left him swallowing dust with each high kick.

“Dear, don’t let a Fitzwilliam bother you. They think they own everything and they love to get into everyone’s business. But you’re Mrs. Cecil and everyone knows you to be fair and honest, just like the great man.”

She nodded, but kept her eyes on the lane. Six years could change things. From a mistress to a wife. From a thief stealing flowers and food to one who owned the flowers and food. What had the six years changed in Ewan?

And would he change again if he knew the doctor’s full report about Tradenwood’s inhabitants? That must never, ever happen. Her son couldn’t be caught in any more of these rows. “We’ll be to the house soon.”

Mrs. Gutter smiled and closed her eyes.

How was Theodosia to keep Ewan from popping up and finding out her greatest secret? As he had done in his play, he’d use it to destroy her.

…

Ewan rapped at Tradenwood’s front door and waited for entry. The day had slipped away. Only a few hours of daylight remained, and from his frequent trips to the patio off Grandbole’s library, he couldn’t get a good view of the comings and goings down here, which meant he couldn’t tell if a doctor had arrived or if one had left. All he knew was that the not-knowing had become maddening.

Before he knocked again, he stopped, lifted his top hat, and raked a hand through his hair. A piece of demolished porcelain Dresden fell to his boots, a parting gift from Jasper’s girls for rushing off from Grandbole more quickly than they wanted.

His nieces, blessed demons, had started an endless series of pranks. The cuteness and questions offered with cherub smiles was an act. They were little masterminds, pranking anything that moved. Starting with swapping the sugar for salt, to more dangerous things like falling Dresden.

He touched his head again, searching for blood or scars. He had enough of both.

Satisfied that he had no new injury, he again knocked at Tradenwood’s door.

Why was a doctor visiting? Six years could change a great deal. He now had a chest full of scars, aches that followed him into the cold winters. What could be wrong with Theo?

For a final time, he took up the brass loop on the door and knocked. No answer still. Should he look to get in by climbing a tree as Jasper and he had done when they were kids?

The door opened and Pickens came outside, pulling the massive frame shut, as if Ewan would sneak inside behind him. “Mr. Fitzwilliam, I need you to go away. The family is having no visitors today.”

“I am family. I came to see my cousin, Widow Cecil.”

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?” Pickens came down a step. His hushed tone continued. “She’s not taking visitors, sir.”

“Nonsense. She’ll see me.”

The butler’s frown deepened as he shook his head. “No. No, she won’t. She left specific instructions.”

He felt like a caricature of his youngest niece parroting words. “Left?”

Gripping his lapel of his liveries, the powdered-haired man nodded. “No visitors.”

Ewan turned and started down the steps, but he couldn’t taste any satisfaction with these answers. Not a pinch. Something was wrong. He stopped and faced the butler. “Pickens. Did Mrs. Gutter need more help? Is that why Mrs. Cecil went?”

The older man stared at him, maybe even huffed. “Mrs. Gutter is well. A bit of punch and she was as good as new.”

Something did not add up, and the way that Theo liked numbers, he knew things were amiss. Drawing up his coat as the wind shifted, Ewan’s temper grew hotter. “I ask again to see Mrs. Cecil. Why are you pretending she is not here?”

“I’m hoping you’ll tire and go back up the hill. The mistress is getting some much-needed sleep, but you’ll wake up the late Master Cecil with your ruckus.”

The butler was trying to get him to leave. Why? Much-needed sleep. It was obvious. She had shadows under her eyes. “Pickens, is she well?”

“You need to go home.” The butler turned and marched back to the top of the steps.

Ewan had to stop him, had to know about Theo. “Pickens, you worked for my uncle and my mother’s father. You remember who I am. I should know about this. This is family.”

The man stopped but didn’t turn. “Yes, I remember you, Ewan Fitzwilliam. You were your uncle’s favorite. He grieved hard when he thought you’d died, but he was also quite fond of Mr. Cecil. Cecil knew what family meant.”

“My concern for the widow is true. I am her family now, even if it is by marriage. I should know.”

Pickens peered over his shoulder with a look of scorn. “Does a Fitzwilliam know the meaning of family, unless it’s convenient?”

Ewan hadn’t expected that moment of truth. There wasn’t much to rebut in Pickens’s words. He shifted his stance. “I see you’ve adopted Mrs. Cecil’s quick tongue.”

“Sir, I’ve worked at Tradenwood for many years. I’ve seen more than I’ll ever admit to remembering. Your family was not kind to Mrs. Cecil. They did not even acknowledge the master’s death.”

The tension and the truth becoming utterly unbearable, Ewan put a hand to his neck. “They do hold grudges. I don’t think they approved of her marriage.”

“The new mistress of Tradenwood is worth the title, and she deserves her privacy. If you remember anything of the widow from six years ago, she does things when she is good and ready.”

The way he said remember indicated Pickens knew more. Did she tell that wizened-face butler that Ewan had ruined himself over Theo before she had attracted Cecil?

“The Mistress of Tradenwood is stubborn. I do remember that. It is still sort of galling to call her that, knowing how my mother, Lady Crisdon, wanted this estate.”

“Your uncle chose not to leave it to her, but to Cecil. Now, Tradenwood is the widow Cecil’s. Hers and her heir’s.”

Heirs? Could that be it? Was this sickness and doctors about Theo being with child? If so, she hadn’t been devoted to Cecil any more than she had been to him. Had she hopped into bed with the next fool and was now with child? That had to be why she needed a new husband—to hide a pregnancy. “Her heirs?”

“Yes. Cecil didn’t want the extended family to harass his wife.”

The concern Ewan had started to feel for her was for naught. She hadn’t changed her ways, despite the teasing fun of dancing with her or the warmth her claiming his hand in the fields had generated. His insides sickened, twisting with new frustration. “So much for hoping she’d changed. Good evening, Pickens.”

That furrowed brow of the old man rose. “I hope she doesn’t change. Never was a kinder or gentler soul. Good day, sir.”

The door thudded closed.

Ewan walked away. Anger pressed on his lungs, making him pant as he paced. The lecture from the butler maligning his family was probably true. The fact that Tradenwood was Theo’s, that was true. The jealousy and angst he felt over Theo, of not knowing of her health or if she carried another man’s child, was true.

The reason for his current misery—unfinished feelings for Theo—that had to be a lie. If only he could convince himself that he was as over her as he had in writing his play. He took a few more steps and fought the urge to return, to find that tree, and see if it would hold his weight. He needed to stop lying to himself. He wasn’t finished with Theo. That was his truth.