“Yes,” he answered tightly.
“Oh, Angus.” Isolde twisted to look up at him. “You should keep these things. I don’t think I’ve seen a single photograph of Camille since I’ve been here. Do you know how much I would give for a picture of my mother?”
Indeed he did. Isolde’s own loss at an early age had helped her to bond with Thomas. But she wasn’t Thomas, and she hadn’t been here for the nightmares. Hadn’t suffered through night after night of his being too terrified to sleep. Unlike her, Thomas couldn’t cope with the memory of his mother.
And Angus couldn’t cope with reliving the helplessness that came with his son’s terror all over again.
He abruptly stood. “I have an appointment with the chairman of the preservation society. Take that to the incinerator, please. If you care to join us for dinner, Isolde, your company would be welcome.”
Denying her time to respond, he strode from the room. He had promised to keep Camille safe and failed. No matter how badly Isolde drove him to distraction, he would not fail to protect his son.
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