Page 29 of The Thornwyck Rose

Lord Henry had permitted Erik to see his son as a reward.

He opened the door to Ragnar’s room and saw his boy swinging an imaginary sword.

Ragnar stopped and stared at his father, before his face lit up.

His hair curled the same way Astrid's had in spring rains. His eyes were hers, too, though the color was that of Erik’s. He was clever, cautious, and far too solemn for a boy of eight.

In two steps, Erik was to him and pulled him in close. Ragnar’s head came to just above his belly. He picked him up and hugged him like he’d never let go. Ragnar was taller than Erik remembered. His eighth birthday had passed without him present. He never had enough time with Ragnar, with anyone he truly loved. Thornwyck Keep swallowed time and made a mockery of memory.

Erik pressed a kiss to Ragnar's hair.

"I love you, Son,” he whispered.

"I know," Ragnar said, his arms tightening around Erik’s neck.

He finally lowered Ragnar.

He held Ragnar’s shoulders gently and studied him. No bruises. No fevers. But he caught sight of a dried bloom next to his bed.

Yellow, pressed flat, fragile.

Erik’s brow furrowed. “Where did you get that?”

Ragnar stooped and brought it closer in his palm. “Lady Seren brought it before Lord David was born.” He studied it with a goofy grin.

His child had called Lady de Thornwyck, Lady Seren, as if they were equals or close friends.

“She said it was a kingcup,” Ragnar continued. “But she said my mother called them sunbursts. Told me they were her and my mother’s favorite flower.”

The air left Erik. His thoughts vanished. The world narrowed to his son and the yellow bloom. He hadn’t spoken of Astrid to Ragnar—it was too painful. And here Seren was, bringing his son flowers, stories, kindness—when he couldn’t. When had she done this? Between prayers? Between pain? Between birthing a child?

"She . . . brought you a flower from the garden?” He sank to his knee to be eye-level with his son.

“She brings sweets, too. Honeyed biscuits, the last time,” Ragnar whispered, glancing at the open door. “They’re my favorite.”

Erik glanced back at Baldwin, who held a half-smile before closing the door to give them privacy. His focus returned to Ragnar. “Lady Seren’s been here multiple times before and after . . . after having a child herself?”

“She’s come once a week with Margot.” Ragnar placed the bloom back on his bedside. “And I love holding little Lord David. He’s a funny one. Makes funny faces.”

Erik sat back on his heel. The ache in his chest grew so suddenly that it felt like it was breaking.

"She said you loved my mother,” Ragnar continued as hesat on his bed. "She said you smiled more when you were near the flowers.”

He did. He had. He might again.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about my mother? I don’t remember her at all.”

Erik covered his mouth with his hand. His vision blurred. He had not cried in front of his son since Astrid died, but Ragnar could barely walk and didn’t remember. But something in him threatened to break now—a thread tugged loose by gratitude and the unbearable tenderness of Seren’s kindness to his son.

He sat next to Ragnar. How to tell him? He was only eight. But if Seren was coming to see him, that meant she cared for Ragnar, and Lord Henry might use him against her. Ragnar had to know the risks.

But the thought repeated: he was only eight.

“It hurt too much to remember her,” Erik finally said. "Did Lady Seren say anything else?"

Ragnar nodded and whispered, “She said I had a brave father. That she owed you too much, but to keep that a secret.”

He had no words for that. Only a deep, growing ache that reached from his ribs to his throat.