As she proceeded to dress and then brush and plait her hair, she kept a close eye on him in that bed.

At some point, he’d ceased snoring, and his breathing had settled into a smoother, even cadence. Having finally sorted out the tangled mess of her hair, she affixed a ribbon to the end.

Her dress complete, Myrtle returned her brush to the valise and fished around for the piece of charcoal pencil she always traveled with.

She did a search for something with which to write upon, her eyes landing on a small leather book.

Drawn to the book she’d not even known he’d had in his hands when he accepted her invitation to enter the room, Myrtle stopped at the table.

She hesitated a moment, then picked up the copy.

A piece of parchment remained tucked at the back of the book, and she stopped.

This meant . . . he’d read it.

She flipped through the pages of Pride and Prejudice to that marker in the tome she’d given him.

Myrtle chewed at her lower lip, contemplating her words—nay, not just any words, a goodbye. How did one aptly capture everything she felt, all the depth of her love and feeling for him?

He doesn’t need to know.

It would only make his sense of guilt—and worse, his pity—that much greater, and she wanted his guilt and pity even less than she wanted his sense of obligation to wed her.

Myrtle quietly turned to the front of the book and proceeded to write. She paused to read and reread the handful of sentences there before signing the note and closing the book with a silent click.

Grabbing up her nightdress, she held it close, and then added it to the fire. She watched the flames lick at the white fabric, rending a black hole bigger and bigger until sparks burst and her nightdress was swallowed up by the blaze within that grate.

And with that, Myrtle donned her cloak, grabbed her valise, and after one last pet for Horace and one last look at Val, she left.

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

The first thing Val registered was the chill. It penetrated a slumber which had been so thoroughly empty of either dreams or nightmares.

Nay, it wasn’t a chill.

It was a quiet but incessant whine.

Horace.

Horace, who was used to rising when the sky was still dark, and Horace, who would need to go outside and have his usual morning exercise.

Val forced his eyes open, and immediately a pair of large blue, accusatory ones met his.

And also Horace, with the handle of Val’s satchel stuck between his teeth.

Val, however, couldn’t recall when he’d last felt this . . . sated after sleep. He closed his eyes once more. “A few more minutes,” he mumbled.

Horace dropped the bag, and it hit the floor with a noisy thump.