“So,” I said. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“I—” he started, but stopped, glancing over his shoulder, then moved close to me. “I have a letter,” he whispered, putting a hand over his breast. “Mr. Myers brought it for me; it has my name on it.”

That would be startling, I thought. As was the case with Fanny, it was undoubtedly the first personal letter he’d ever received.

“Who is it from?” I asked, and heard him swallow.

“My mam,” he said. “It— I know her writing.”

“You haven’t opened it yet?” I asked.

He shook his head, pressing his hand against his chest as though fearing the letter might fly out by itself.

“Germain,” I said softly, and rubbed his back, feeling his shoulder blades sharp under the flannel shirt. “Your mother loves you. You don’t need to be af—”

“No, she doesn’t!” he burst out, and curled up tight, trying to contain the hurt. “She doesn’t, she can’t … I—I killed Henri-Christian. She c-can’t … can’t even look at me!”

I got my arms round him and pulled him to me. He wasn’t a tiny boy by any means, but I pressed his head into my shoulder and held him like a baby, rocking a little, making soft shushing sounds while he cried, big gulping sobs that he couldn’t hold back.

What could I say to him? I couldn’t just tell him he was wrong; simple contradiction never works with children, even when it’s the obvious truth. And in all honesty, this wasn’t obvious.

“You didn’t kill Henri-Christian,” I said, keeping my voice steady with some effort. “I was there, Germain.” I had been there, and I didn’t want to go back. Just Henri-Christian’s name, and it was all there, surrounding us both: the reek of smoke and the boom of exploding barrels of ink and varnish and the roar of flames coming up through the loft, Germain clinging to a rope, dangling high above the cobblestones. Reaching for his little brother …

It was no use. I couldn’t hold back my own tears and I held him hard, my face pressed against his hair with its smell of boy and innocence.

“It was awful,” I whispered. “So terrible. But it was an accident, Germain. You tried all you could to save him. You know you did.”

“Yes,” he managed, “but I couldn’t! Oh, Grannie, I couldn’t!”

“I know,” I whispered, over and over, rocking him. “I know.”

And slowly, the horror and the grief subsided into sorrow. We sniffled and wept and I found a handkerchief for him and wiped my own nose on my apron.

“Give me the letter, Germain,” I said, clearing my throat. I sat back against the bed. “I don’t know what it says, but you have to read it. Some things you just have to go through.”

“I can’t read it,” he said, and gave a small forlorn laugh. “It’s too dark.”