Duncan appears in the doorway. Something in his demeanor makes me freeze. He sidles past me with only a perfunctory pat on my shoulder and flops into a chair. All the weeks of waiting, all my pent-up loneliness, well up inside me.

“I was expecting you last night.”

Duncan groans and sinks further into his chair.

“I was worried. I didn’t know what had happened.” I school myself to wait for Duncan’s reply.

“Nessa. I’m here now.”

My anger is churning and spilling and I cannot keep it in.

“I suppose you think this is all my life is? Waiting for you.”

Duncan’s eyes narrow. I see him stare at the painted angel on the wood box. We worked on it together, laughing as we argued over the position of the wings. For one terrifying moment I realize Duncan might leave for good. Immediately, I am on the defensive. I rein in my feelings.

“I’m sorry. You must be tired after your journey. I’ll make some tea.”

The vexed expression on Duncan’s face accompanies me to the kitchen.

It is dark, save for the slivers of moonlight that slip out from behind the crack in the curtains. I lie with my cheek on the pillow, listening. My body is taut with longing. I close my eyes and imagine I hear her tread on the stairs. I do not doubt she will come. I think of the cool of her arms as she stoops to kiss me, the feel of her gloved fingers as she sweeps the loose strands of hair back behind my ears. I open my eyes and watch the pale light quiver in the draft. I strain to hear her footsteps but the only sound is the cadence of your breathing on the other side of the room. Still I do not doubt she will come. I try to remember what dress Mother is wearing. I picture the blue velvet, the folds of her skirt falling round her like the sea. I think of all the guests she must say goodnight to, the scurry in the hall to find hats and coats and umbrellas. I imagine the horses’ hooves slipping on the wet cobbles, the drowsy, lulling, rocking warmth inside the cabs.

My eyes open with a start. I sit up and lift the edge of the curtains. There are streaks of gray in the sky. I can see the branches of the trees, rain dripping from their leaves. My disappointment streams in torrents down the pane.