"Because the night he died, I was with you on Wood Street." His voice roughened. "I was happy. I had not been happy in a long time. Not truly. Not without guilt sitting beside me. Then there was you, my little corner of peace, and for a few hours I forgot what I was supposed to carry. I thought God punished me for it...For daring to want something for myself."
Livia moved beside the desk, near enough to see the tremor in his hand. "Thomas did not die because you were happy."
"Richard helped me after Thomas died," he said. "He dragged me out of the dark when I had no wish to leave it. He believed I deserved happiness. All of it. He was such a fool. What did he know? But he was good at finding me in my worst hours. Which is why once again, I am warring with myself on the right thing to do."
"Is it something I can help with?" Livia asked.
Henry looked down at the unfinished sketch, then at the chalk dust on his fingers. He seemed not to hear her.
