“How sad,” she murmured. “I did so love this place.”
Her brows were knit, her plump lips drooping.
He cleared his throat. “There are a few signs of rebirth,” he remarked, feeling a fool even as he said it.
She perked up. “Such as?”
“Some green blades of grass. And the sun is shining,” he said lamely. He caught sight of something. “Ah. There’s a sort of small purple flower off to the left as well.”
“Is there?” She brightened. “Show me.”
He took her hand and carefully pulled it down to the pathetic little flower.
She felt it so gently the petals weren’t even bruised.
“A violet, I think,” she said at last, straightening. “I’d pick it to smell, but with so few survivors I don’t want to steal it away.”
He forbore to say that one violet hardly made a garden.
She sighed as they continued. “Very few signs of rebirth indeed. I wonder how Mr. Harte will ever rebuild it?”
Privately he thought the matter a lost cause, but he decided not to share that thought with her.
They were nearing the theater and Trevillion frowned. He’d not thought this out well enough. He hadn’t made specific plans with Lord Kilbourne about where or when to meet. The man might be anywhere.
When they came within sight of the theater, however, his problem was solved. Lord Kilbourne was digging a hole some yards from the theater while a small dark-haired boy sat nearby, apparently chatting with him.
Trevillion felt his brows lift. Where had the boy come from? There were no residences for a half mile at the least in any direction.
The boy had a small, thin dog lying curled at his side, and the creature raised its head at their approach. In a blur it was up and racing over, yapping wildly.
Trevillion scowled at the beast. It was jumping excitedly at Lady Phoebe’s skirts. “Down, you.”
“Oh, Captain, I don’t think I need be protected from a lapdog,” Lady Phoebe said, and before he could ascertain if the animal was friendly or not, knelt before the thing.
Immediately it began pawing at her and licking her face.
Lady Phoebe laughed, hands outstretched, but the dog was too excited to hold still so she might pet it. Her round face was positively lit with joy. “What kind is it?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, looking away from her. “Something small, thin, and hysterical.”
“Daffodil’s an Italian greyhound,” the boy said, having trotted after his dog. “You can pet her if you like. She doesn’t bite, although,” he added, entirely unnecessarily, “she does lick.”
“I can feel that,” Lady Phoebe replied, smiling. Her face was tilted toward the sky. “I once had a friend who had an Italian greyhound. What color is she?”
“Red,” the boy said, adding with the frankness of the young, “can’t you see?”
“Lady Phoebe is blind, boy,” Trevillion said sharply.
His charge winced and turned a glare on him, which was quite effective, unseeing or not.
The child shrank back at his tone, and Trevillion noticed his eyes were mismatched: one blue, one green. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to be,” Lady Phoebe said gently. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Indio,” he said. “That’s Caliban, my friend”—he pointed to Lord Kilbourne, which made Trevillion’s eyebrows rise farther—“and my mama is in the theater.”
Lady Phoebe turned her head at that as if she could look about. “We’re near the theater?”