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The carriage slowed as they approached Beacon House. A child darted across the courtyard, running with the abandon that only the very young possess. A world away from war and death and endless nightmares.

A world where, perhaps, happily-ever-afters weren’t entirely impossible.

The carriage halted with a gentle lurch, and Abigail’s hand tightened around the walking stick. Beacon House stood before them—her battered kingdom, as Marjory sometimes called it. The windows gleamed in the afternoon sun, newly washed. Someone had swept the front steps and placed two pots of spring flowers beside the door.

Graham descended first, then turned to offer his hand. “Careful now.”

His grip was sure, steady as he helped her navigate the step down. Her ankle protested sharply, but she kept her expression neutral, determined not to reveal weakness.

“I can manage from here,” she said, adjusting her grip on the cane.

Graham released her but remained close, his presence like a shadow at her back. “Of course.”

She had taken only three steps toward the entrance when the door burst open. Mrs. Welling appeared first, her round face lighting with relief.

“Miss Abby!” she called, hurrying down the steps, wiping her hands on her apron. “Thank the heavens! The children have been asking after you every hour, though you shouldn’t have rushed back.”

Before they reached the entrance, the door flew open, and a flurry of small bodies erupted into the street.

“Miss Abby! Miss Abby’s back!”

Children swarmed around her. Little hands tugged at her skirt and reached for her fingers as a tidal wave of chatter engulfed her.

This. This is what matters. This is real.

“You were gone so long!”

“Are you still poorly? Mrs. Welling said you were poorly.”

“Did you bring sweets?”

“Careful with Miss Abby,” Mrs. Welling cautioned, shooing them back. “She’s still mending.”

Abigail bent as much as her injuries allowed, her free hand reaching to smooth Jenny’s tangled hair. “I’ve missed you all terribly. Have you been good for Mrs. Welling?”

“Very good,” Jenny insisted, though her smile turned impish. “Except Thomas put a frog in the soup.”

“It was already dead,” Thomas protested from behind her. “And it was an accident.”

Abigail laughed. “Well, I hope Cook forgave you.”

“After he peeled potatoes for two hours,” Mrs. Welling said, frowning the perpetrator’s direction. “Come inside, miss. You shouldn’t be standing about in the yard. Your mother and sister just left. They said you wouldn’t be in for days yet.”

Abigail allowed herself to be guided into the familiar entrance hall, the children trailing behind like ducklings. Graham followed at a respectful distance, his expression unreadable as he observed the scene.

The interior of Beacon House greeted her with its usual medley of scents—soap, cooking, and the indefinable smell of many lives lived in close quarters. But something was different. Abigail paused, her gaze sweeping the hallway.

“New curtains?” she asked, noting the fresh blue fabric hanging in the windows.

Mrs. Welling nodded, a knowing gleam in her eye. “ Some mystery soul sent over a mountain of goods—curtains, linens, enough medicine to outfit a hospital, and even hired help for the laundry and scullery.” She cast a pointed glance at Graham, who suddenly became very interested in examining a crack in the plaster wall.

“How generous,” Abigail said, allowing Graham his anonymity.

“Indeed. And the Countess has been a whirlwind, organizing a ladies’ sewing circle. We’ve got so many blankets and baby gowns, I’m running out of places to stack them.”

Abigail smiled. Verity was nothing short of a force of nature when she applied herself to a cause.

“Said it was high time the ladies of quality put their nimble fingers to proper use.” Mrs. Welling continued. “Nearly frightened poor Lady Merriworth into stitching her fingers together.”