Later that day, after spending a couple of hours in the nursery with Harry, Henry went to his room and found the door slightly ajar, when he knew he had left it closed. He thought as he did every time he came to this room that he hated the memories of sharing it with Kat—and of her dying here—and that he should approach Oliver about moving to a room in a different wing. But he’d put off the conversation, given the fragile emotions they were all experiencing. As he quietly pushed the door open now, he knew it was time to start sleeping elsewhere. This had been Kat’s room long before he’d married her, and apparently it needed to remain Kat’s room. Amala was curled up in the center of the bed in the very spot where Kat had died, crying so hard that she had no awareness of his entering the room.

For a long moment Henry just stood there, debating whether to slip quietly back out undetected or to make himself known. He hated the chasm that had grown between them since their comfortable friendship had become lost in Kat’s attempt to become a matchmaker. He knew that no one would understand his grief more than Amala—and perhaps the other way around. And yet they could hardly talk to each other. Suddenly deciding he wanted to put an end to such discomfort between them—or at least try—he left the door open for the sake of propriety, picked up a chair, and moved it to the side of the bed, where he’d spent endless hours sitting at Kat’s side during her illness. As he put the chair down and sat on it, Amala was startled and sat up abruptly.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“This is my room,” he reminded her, and she looked immediately embarrassed, putting a hand over her eyes, which didn’t stop the flow of tears running down her face.

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking,” she murmured, scooting to the other side of the bed. “I’m so sorry. I just . . . I just . . .” She put her feet on the floor, but before she could stand, he noticed how she dropped her head to her knees, as if she felt dizzy from sitting up so quickly while in such a state.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I understand why you would want to come here. I’m going to move to another room tomorrow anyway. The memories are difficult for me here. This should remain Kat’s room—at least for the time being. Perhaps one day we’ll decide we no longer need a shrine to her memory, but right now . . . it seems to still hold her spirit somehow.”