Chapter 14
I reopened Isabella’s rooms at St. Catherine’s.
They had been closed since her death.
Audrey came with me.
So did Claire.
Nobody else.
My daughter stood in the doorway of her mother’s old bedroom and stared at everything.
Photographs.
Books.
A blue shawl folded across the chair.
She touched it.
“Mommy?”
“Yes.”
“She wore this?”
“Yes.”
Audrey smiled.
Then she looked at me.
“Did Mommy fall?”
My chest tightened.
I crouched.
“Yes.”
“Because she was bad at riding?”
There it was.
Vanessa’s poison.
“No.”
Audrey frowned.
“But she fell.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I chose words a three-year-old could carry.
“Because adults made something unsafe.”
She looked at me.
“On purpose?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
Her face changed.
Children understand betrayal even when they cannot name conspiracy.
“Did Mommy know?”
“Not enough.”
Audrey touched the shawl again.
“Was she bad?”
“No.”
“Was she careless?”
“No.”
“Was it her fault?”
My throat tightened.
“No.”
That answer mattered most.
Audrey leaned into me.
I held her.
Not too tightly.
She looked around the room again.
“Vanessa said Mommy makes trouble.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“She was wrong.”
“Mommy good?”
I smiled sadly.
“Mommy was stubborn.”
Audrey smiled.
“Like me?”
I laughed.
“Very much.”
That pleased her.
Good.
I did not want Isabella remembered as perfect.
Perfect dead women become impossible ghosts.
She was impatient.
Sharp.
Funny.
Terrible at waking early.
Loved horses.
Argued with me about everything.
Audrey deserved a mother, not a saint.
We spent the afternoon telling stories.
No routes.
No councils.
No betrayal.
May you like
Just Isabella.
For the first time, St. Catherine’s felt like something Audrey inherited besides danger.
