“In all of them.” He shuffled the papers again. “Your father’s study, the garden, this country scene, your mother. The same shadows in all.”
“But not in the Masquerade.” She set her cup onto a table before she dropped it and rubbed at her temples. “I…I wish I understood. But you saw the blade when I did not. Surely you will make sense of this too. If it even matters.”
“It matters.” When he framed her face in his hands and tilted it up, his gaze left no room for disagreement. “You have information yet trapped inside you, sweet. Still locked behind the pain and grief. This is how you work it out, through your art. Like the painting of your father.”
A shudder coursed through her. Secrets—those things she had always hated when she spotted them surrounding her—were trapped within her own mind, and she couldn’t lure them out. She didn’t even know they were there until a memory surfaced that ought never have been sunken to begin with.
“What is wrong with me, Thad? I am broken.”
He pulled her close so she could press her face into the sandalwood-scented fabric of his shirt, so that she could wrap her arms around him and hold on while the earth rocked beneath her like the sea.
But even while she held on, she was ready to reject whatever assurances he would offer. He would try to tell her she was well, she was fine, there was nothing wrong with her. But there was. She knew it. She could feel that fracture within her. That missing piece. Visible only in those displaced shadows.
“Ah, sweet.” He sighed, shuddered with her, and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “We are all broken.”
The light had turned red-gold as the sun drifted toward the horizon, bathing the clouds in a rainbow and the Arnaud lawn in a soft warmth. Thad relaxed against the weathered wood of the chair he had claimed and smiled when Jack tossed the ball wide with admirable vigor.
Arnaud praised the boy’s strength…and heaved a sigh as he ran, yet again, to fetch the toy. Thad hooked his hands behind his head and made sure he looked more relaxed than ever when his friend came huffing back. “So how did the flotilla look, then?”
Arnaud tossed the ball to his son, gently and precisely. “Good catch, Jacques!” He glanced at the sky and then at Thad. “In well enough order, I suppose. Though when one examines the state of things, really examines it, it is a wonder this war has not already ended in our defeat. Have we won any battles whose victory gained us an advantage?”
Thad ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “In the Chesapeake? No. But that is not the kind of war being waged, is it?”
Arnaud jumped high to snatch the ball. “Good one!”
The boy grinned, ran in a circle, and then pointed wildly at a bush. “Look, Papa, the fireflies are out! Can we catch them? Can we?”
“An excellent idea. You look over there and I will look over here.” Arnaud let the ball fall to the ground and leaned against a tree trunk. “I cannot say what kind of war is being waged. We are not a Napoleon, trying to take over the entire world. We are not a rebellious colony that must be subdued. What, then, is their goal? To defend their Canadian territories against us, yes—that I understand. But here? If they are trying to conquer us again—”
“Then they must first weaken us.” Thad rubbed his hands over his face. “Divide us against ourselves. Send a portion of us running in fear and let another portion wax into complacency and so forget we are even fighting a war.”
“Papa, you are not looking for them!”
Arnaud grinned at his son. “Of course I am, Jacques. There is one right here, and I do not want to startle it.” He made a lazy swipe at an even lazier bug and scooped it into his palm. Jack let out a whoop and dashed over to look.
“How do they make their bottoms light up, Papa? I have tried, and mine will not do it.”
Thad snorted a laugh. “That sounds like a question for Grandpapa.”
“Most assuredly.” Arnaud stretched his hand flat to release the insect. “One more minute, mon fils, and we must ready for bed.”
With the expected groan, Jack took off after another slow wink of yellow light. Arnaud turned back to Thad. “Something else is bothering you, oui?”
“Gates.” He heaved out a breath and leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees. “He must have something invested in this war. I cannot think what, not with so little knowledge of him, but it is the only thing that makes sense with all Gwyn has said. Her father’s accusation of his greed, his determination to blame Fairchild’s death on us Americans.”
Arnaud quirked a single brow. “Not just us Americans, Thad. Us. The Culpers.”
“He does not know who we are.”
“We do though, non? The only organized American espionage ring.”
Thad closed his eyes. “I wish I knew what we were up against.”
“That famed intuition of yours will decipher it.” Arnaud pushed off the tree and made a waving motion at Jack. “Come, Jacques. Time to go inside.”