“No,” he gritted out. “I like it just fine.” He liked it more than just fine.

His mind, however, struggled to plow its way out of a place of terror.

She wrinkled her nose. “You are a terrible liar, Val. It is fine. Mrs. Belden informed me that I’m a most horrendous singer, and that I should always forgo singing, because—”

“Don’t you dare listen to that advice,” he commanded. “Mrs. Belden is a twat,” he said bluntly, this time thoroughly and completely distracted at the mention of her. “You’d be wise to part ways with any lesson or piece of advice imparted by that old harridan.”

Myrtle’s entire face lit up, from her eyes to the color that filled her cheeks, because of him. He’d brought that happiness. It was foreign. He didn’t bring anyone happiness, any longer. He was a miserable, cold bastard. But this woman, somehow, with him, smiled and laughed and . . . He’d forgotten what it was to make a person feel that way. He’d not believed himself capable of it.

And soon she’ll be gone.

Darkness filled every corner of his chest, and the Lord, determined to punish him for sins he still could not sort out that had been so bad to merit this depth of His Savior’s disfavor, sent another gust of wind swelling outside.

Sweat popped up along his temple.

“Will you sing again?” he asked hoarsely, determined to steal these last moments of joy with her so that he might bottle them away and recall what they had been like.

She sat upright. “Do you have a preference?”

He opened his mouth.

“Because I really do love them all, and—”

“Any song, Myrtle,” he gritted out when the carriage lurched precariously to the right. “The last one.” Any of them. Just to hear her voice.

She promptly broke into song. It was that unfamiliar-to-him one, the one with lyrics in German, the ones that required him to pull from long-ago German he’d learned first from tutors and then been instructed on during his years at Eton and Cambridge, but beyond those times had never really used.

“Das Röslein, das ich meine,

davon Isaias sagt,

ist Maria die reine

die uns das Blümlein bracht.

“The little rose that I mean

of which Isaias says

Maria is the pure one

who brought us the flower . . .”

“Aus Gottes ew’gem Rat

hat sie ein Kind geboren

und blieb ein reine Magd.

or: Welches uns selig macht.

“From God’s eternal advice

she gave birth to a child

and remained a pure maid.

“Das Blümelein, so kleine,

das duftet uns so süß,

mit seinem hellen Scheine

vertreibt’s die Finsternis.

Wahr Mensch und wahrer Gott . . .”

He stilled, his mind lingering on those lyrics, even as she continued on to the next.

“The little flower, so small,

it smells so sweet to us

with its bright shine

drive away the darkness.