Riley woke him at eight the next morning, too early for Ashe to want to get out of bed. This morning, all he asked was to bury himself deeper under the thick covers and stay there for days, especially since he wasn't expected at the theater.

"Can I open it?" she asked, waving the parcel she'd found with a rose in the kitchen. Ashe was reminded of Christmas morning, when she'd said the same thing as she'd jumped into the small bed they'd shared in his childhood bedroom in Reeth, holding a box decorated with a bow.

He would have preferred to sleep longer, but his own curiosity took over and so he sat up in bed and watched her jiggling with excitement and caffeine. She usually made her way to the kitchen when she awoke, straight to the complicated espresso machine he'd bought for her from Europe. Never one to sleep in, she'd make herself an espresso and sit on the couch reading one of his books until he woke up. Sometimes she'd play his vintage records until he'd wake up and watch her dance to the music of Elvis or the Ramones.

As she tore the wrapping from the box Ashe steeled himself for her first reaction, her body stiffening against him as she caught a glimpse of the picture book hidden beneath the tissue paper. She picked up the book, frowning as she turned it over to inspect it.

"I haven't seen this book since Dad took it away from me. I was probably eight or nine then." When Ashe said nothing, Riley turned to look at him. "Where did you find this? My dad said it had been destroyed in the fire."

"I got it from him," he replied. No need for her to know right now that her father had handed it to him after asking money for it.

"But how did you know about it?" Riley asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Gareth told me. He mentioned how much you had loved the book."

Riley arched an eyebrow. "And you really thought that listening to Gareth was a good idea?"

As he shrugged, he saw the corners of Riley's mouth curve upward, her mock frown replaced by a wide grin. He saw an unmistakable look of happiness in her eyes, a flash of mischief even. Then she kissed him on the lips.

"Fooled you there!" She giggled as he relaxed. "You're wound up so tightly, Ashe. Relax."

"Are you happy?" He'd relax later, maybe after ten hours of sleep.

"Of course I'm happy! I'm so happy I don't know what else to say except 'thank you.' Thank you so much for this," she said, settling back against his chest. Riley bent her knees and rested the book on her thighs, lifting the cover. "Would you like me to read it to you?"

"Of course," replied Ashe, stifling a yawn as he leaned back.

"Oh, but you're tired," she said. "I should let you rest."

Ashe shook his head. "Yes, I am tired, but I do want to hear you read it to me."

"Why don't I read one page, and then you can go back to sleep?" she said. "It's still snowing, and there's nothing else to do but sleep. Nature's telling us to hibernate."

"Aye, let's do that," said Ashe, kissing her lightly on the tip of her nose. "Please read me a story. I want to hear what your mother made for you. She was a talented artist too, to draw such beautiful pictures."

She paused, frowning. "My mother, an artist?"

"Didn't your mother make that?"

Riley shook her head. "Not exactly. She wrote the stories, but someone else did the drawings. See?" She opened the book to the first page and Ashe was immediately transported back to the first time he'd seen it, inside Riley's old house, with Sid watching Ashe's reaction. He didn't let that memory linger too long, not when Riley was right there, smelling of roses, her long blonde hair tickling his nose as she ran her finger along the page of the picture book.

"She could make up stories and these silly rhymes, but she couldn't draw," she said. "Even her stick figures were really bad, and it got worse as her MS progressed."

On the paper was a drawing of a young girl wearing a pink dress and holding a brown teddy bear. It had been executed in ink after the watercolors had been painted in. It looked somewhat primitive, but as Ashe looked closely, he realized that the strokes were quite self-assured. The primitive effect was intentional, and what had seemed like plain construction paper was watercolor paper, thick and textured. Time had aged it, and dark smudges along the corners told him that Sid had flipped through it with oily fingers.

"Who drew these, then, if not your mother?" asked Ashe, peering closer at the drawing. The child's face was directed at the reader as if addressing them. A broad smile graced her mouth and freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Yellow watercolor paint formed her blonde hair, tied in pigtails.

Riley shrugged. "I don't know his name, but he was a friend of hers. He gave it to me during one of our trips in the city. I remember what he looked like, though. He had a kind face with classic features, and he always wore a tailored suit. Anyway, let me read you one of her poems."

"Go ahead."

She cleared her throat and glanced at him one more time, a huge grin plastered on her face, then turned back to the book. Ashe could feel her excitement flowing through him. Her body was humming with it.

There once was a little girl named Riley

Who loved all things sweet and girly,

With her bright blue eyes and great big smile

Oh! How I love this sweet little girl, my Riley.

There was a pause, and for a few moments, they were quiet. Ashe could hear the wind howling outside, the soft patter of snow against the glass panes. He pushed a lock of hair behind Riley's ear, wishing he could see her face.

"She wasn't really much of a rhymer, was she?" Riley said suddenly, her voice breaking. Before he could reply that her late mother was an excellent rhymer and that it was all in the context, she broke down in sobs, turning her body toward him as if seeking shelter from the storm. This time, however, the storm was not the one that he could see and hear outside the window, but one that lay deep within Riley herself.

Ashe wondered then if his perfect present had been a bad idea after all.