He was gruff but direct. Honest, and yet there was a hardness to him that she’d easily recognized as a veneer he’d used to protect himself. And she wanted to pull it back. She wanted to witness and help bring about more of those grins of his, which had first looked pained and strained, but with every day they’d spent together had become more relaxed. More real.

Alas, she may be an innocent young woman. Her understanding of the world may be limited, but she was also mature enough, wise enough, to recognize in Val a man who’d loved so very deeply and who could never, and would never, love again.

And Myrtle’s soul proved rotten and dark and black, for in that moment she found herself not only envious of a dead woman but also resentful of the hold she still had over Val, a hold so strong that it prevented him from truly being happy again.

Or from falling in love again.

Myrtle drew in a shaky, solitary breath and forced her eyes open.

It was as though with her thoughts of Val, she’d conjured him of thin air.

At some point he’d slipped the curtains open.

The full moon bathed the street between them in a bright luminescent glow that shone upon his residence and painted him in a full light.

And she was grateful for it.

He’d also changed his garments, trading out his familiar black trousers and black coat for a new pair of trousers. Only, he’d discarded his jacket and stood there in his white lawn shirt, a stark flag. So relaxed. So casual that her chest clenched and unclenched as she imagined him dressed so at this late hour with him and her together.

He lifted his hand in a distant greeting, and Myrtle followed suit, holding her palm aloft.

“Hello,” she mouthed silently, knowing it was unlikely from this distance that he’d see that faint movement of her lips.

Only . . .

As she squinted, peering intently at him, wanting to commit him to memory, she detected it: a slight inclination of his head, an acknowledgment that he’d seen and now returned the greeting.

And he proved so very taciturn even in a soundless exchange that she couldn’t keep from smiling.

They lingered there.

And for a moment she thought he’d remain there forever.

But then he lifted his hand again in a final wave and drew the curtains closed once more, so perfunctory as he shut them the fabric didn’t so much as dance or flutter.

Myrtle stood motionless. Waiting for him to return. Hoping he’d push the fabric open again . . . or better yet, that he’d closed the curtains but had done so only because he intended to fetch his cloak and cross the courtyard between them and join Myrtle.

The clock at her back, however, ticked away.