“…it’s the old French ballad I used to sing to Alec and Isabelle. The one you asked me about.”
There was very little light in the room now, and in the dimness Maryse looked to him almost as she had when he was ten years old, as if she had not changed at all in the past seven years. She looked severe and worried, anxious—and hopeful. She looked like the only mother he’d ever known.
“You were wrong that I never sang it to you,” she said. “It’s just that you never heard me.”