She glanced down at the ground. ‘He died in the camp last year.’

They were silent a moment.

‘What do you suppose his real name is?’ Blackmane asked.

‘Probably something bland like Thomas or David.’

His mouth turned up.

Isabel reached for his hand, warm fingers threading through his. The internal response to such a simple gesture surprised him. His feelings were supposed to have faded over time, not multiplied. He had done everything to weed her from his heart and mind, even visiting the tavern to spend time with other women. But he had always left alone at the end of the evening, chest hollow and gut heavy with guilt.

He looked around the newly constructed gardens, trying to picture himself in this setting. It was laughable, yet desirable.

‘How long do we have?’ Isabel asked.

‘An hour, maybe.’

She turned her face away from him, pressing her fingers to her lips.

He hated seeing her upset. ‘Please don’t cry.’

‘I am not crying.’ She sniffed. ‘It is the blossoms from the tree over there.’ She gestured vaguely. ‘They make my eyes water.’

He turned her to face him, reaching up to wipe the tears off her cheeks. ‘Seeing you cry is bad enough, but being the cause of your tears is like a kick in the teeth.’

She searched his eyes. ‘I have never been kicked in the teeth, but I imagine it hurts.’

He tugged gently on her hand until she fell against him, his fingers curling into her damp hair as he held her head to his chest. She smelled of lavender soap.

Minutes slipped by. Neither of them moved nor spoke.

More minutes passed.

The problem with stillness was that it made space for emptiness. He had always found it better to keep moving. The faster the better.

Next thing.

Next thing.

Next thing.

Yet there was nothing empty about this moment. It was tranquil, restorative. It was exactly what they both needed.

‘If things were different,’ she said, breaking the silence. ‘If you were here, or I was there, would this have worked?’

He blinked slowly. ‘Yes.’

She drew back to look at him. ‘I am cold.’

He searched her face, then guided both her hands beneath his shirt. ‘Better?’

She shook her head.

‘What do you need?’

‘Your hands on me.’

He held her face, rubbing his thumbs on her wet cheeks. ‘Is that better?’

She shook her head. ‘My lips are cold.’

His gaze fell to them, and then he brought his mouth to hers, kissing her softly for a long time. He wanted to memorise the taste and feel of her lips. Only when he felt his control slipping did he break the kiss and drop his forehead to hers. They remained that way until their breathing returned to normal.

‘I need to ask you something,’ he said.

She drew back, waiting.

‘If there was a way I could be here, would you want that?’