“And you’ve discovered that what worked for you in a snowy little bubble doesn’t work for you outside of it,” he replied, his words like acid on his tongue. “This isn’t about real life. Real life is people leaning on each other when things are hard. It’s loving each other so much there’s no question about facing things together. It’s fighting for each other and with each other and being damned grateful for every morning you wake up together. I’ve seen real life, and it’s not what you’re choosing. You’re choosing fear, and control, because you don’t want to get hurt again.”

“That’s not true,” she said, sounding like she was fighting to keep her voice even. “There’s a difference between not wanting to be hurt and not wanting to hurt someone else.”

“Sure,” he said. “Just not in this case.”

“You may be right,” she said. “Regardless, it’s my decision.”

Sam nodded, all his anger and grief balling up into a chunk of lead in the center of his chest. “Yes. It’s your decision.” He closed his eyes, struggling to find some place of calm, some wellspring of rationality he could pull from. “I told you once I wasn’t going to be angry at you for things you couldn’t help. I don’t know if this is one of those things, but I do know that I’m angry. I think it’s best if I go.”

“Be angry,” she whispered. “I—I haven’t behaved well. For that I’m sorry.”

He looked at her, drinking her in even through the anger. “Last time we fought you thought I’d left the project at Liefdehuis. You should know that won’t happen this time, either.”

Alva’s lips compressed like she might be ill, but she nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

After a long gaze, he said, “Good-bye, Alva,” and turned to the door. He heard her whisper good-bye right before it shut behind him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

She didn’t know how long she sat after he left. Long enough for twilight to seep into the sky and the chair cushions to become extensions of her body. She stared at the wall opposite, memorizing it. One mantel, local stone. Two vases, one Chinese, one silver. One mirror, framed in gold, tarnishing at the edges. She watched as the light faded from the room entirely, replaced by a palette of charcoal and pewter and black.

It was over, then, whatever it had been, over before it had really begun. She’d been lying to herself in New York—and worse, by lying to herself, she’d lied to him.