Myrtle sat before the fire with her knees pulled close to her chest, drawing her fingers through the cascade of dark curls; they hung like a midnight curtain around her shoulders, falling all the way to her waist. And hunger licked at his insides. A yearning to drag his fingers through those curls, worshipping the satiny texture, and then pushing them back and lowering his lips to her shoulder.

“Would you mind terribly retrieving my hairbrush from my valise?” she asked, her innocuous tone penetrating those desirous musings.

Wordlessly—and grateful for the distraction—Val strode over, grabbed the valise, opened it, and fished around inside.

His fingers collided with the harsh bristles. Grabbing the handle, he yanked it out and headed over to where she sat beside Horace. “Here,” he said, thrusting the silver brush at her.

Myrtle tipped her head back and beamed at him. “Splendid.”

There was that word again.

As she set to work brushing those strands, he contemplated her and her response.

It was a word choice he would have mocked days ago, because he’d been so very certain there wasn’t anything good enough left in this world to merit that selection.

But that had been before.

Before her.

Because he’d come to appreciate her and saw the world in her eyes; she still found it wondrous and great, and for her, it would be. Or that was his hope. When they parted, he prayed that she’d never lose that infectious joy that lived inside her . . . even as he knew that day was inevitable. For there would come a time that happiness was crushed by the reality of life’s cruelty, and he didn’t want to be around and see when that day came.

He didn’t want to witness the moment she stopped humming in that happy little way.

Or singing . . .

As if she followed the cue of his thoughts, Myrtle broke into song, her voice quieter than usual, but still she managed to pack the same exuberance and cheer she always did into the carol that sprang from her lips.

“Christians, awake, salute the happy morn,

whereon the Savior of the world was born,

rise to adore the mystery of love,

which hosts of angels chanted from above . . .”

And wonder of wonders, as Val watched her, his lips began to move in a silent song.

“with them the joyful tidings were begun

of God incarnate and the Virgin’s son . . .”

His eyes remained locked on her.

Myrtle looked up, her eyes landing on him.

Had she felt his stare? Was she as in tune with Val and his movements as he was acutely aware of her?

The thought should terrify him; it was further proof of this deepening connection to her.

So why, then, did he not look away?

Why, then, did he continue his noiseless recitation of those lyrics as he joined his silent voice to her still quiet soprano?

“He spake, and straightway the celestial choir