That provoked a small smile from him. The scab on his cheek pulled, as if it wanted to break open again, and I wondered how long that mark would be there, reminding him of me every time he looked at it. He drank the rest of his cider, but he didn’t touch his food again. I noticed his face grew wan as the hour progressed, that a sheen of perspiration had formed on his brow. And when he rose and carried his plate into the kitchen, I stood and followed him.

We put away the food in the icebox and washed the dishes, which was sure to evoke Mrs. Stirling’s wrath the next day, as we had disregarded her command, but the action of doing something so simple seemed to calm Phelan.

We had another hour to burn.

Phelan built a fire in the drawing room hearth and I made a pot of tea, and we shared it before the crackling dance of the flames. Silent and pensive, waiting for the hands on the clock to tick their path to nine o’clock.

At a quarter till, Phelan rose and left the room.

I braided my hair out of my eyes and checked the buttons on my boots. I retethered the ribbon laces of my bodice, until I felt a pinch when I breathed deeply. I missed my weapon belt and my daggers; seeing Olivette’s had stirred up emotions I’d thought I had buried. When Phelan returned to me, he had our two rapiers in hand. I accepted mine and belted it at my waist, a tremor of anticipation coursing through me.

“Shall we?” he asked with an elegant flourish of his hand, as if he were asking me to dance with him.

I was calm until that moment, when my memories crept back over me. The firelight of a cozy cottage, the fragrance of cherry galettes warm from the oven, my father leading me out into a star-dusted night, to the market green of Hereswith. My longing was keen; I wavered for a moment, thinking I might fracture.

I missed those old days. I wanted to return to them until I finally acknowledged that such a thing would be impossible. My life had changed seasons; I could never go back to how things had been. And when I met Phelan’s dark gaze, my nostalgia melted away, leaving me standing in a world I had made.

We walked to the foyer with five minutes to spare. I followed Phelan out into the moonless night, as if I had done it a hundred times before.

21

Auberon Street felt cold and dead, like the crooked path of a graveyard. I walked beside Phelan, fog beginning to pool in low places, waiting for the clock to strike nine. I could feel the tension in him when our elbows accidentally brushed; his face looked ghostly pale in the lantern light.