At eleven o’clock the following Friday night, Reese knocked on the door of the old tailor’s shop, feeling more like himself than he had in months.

Sophie’s advice had helped. He’d forced himself to drink the bitter herb potion. He’d ridden his horse and spent time napping outdoors. But mostly, he’d thought about her.

He’d thought about her as he spent hours every day completing the list of gardening chores she’d provided. It had taken him two whole mornings of poking around in the moat with a fishing net to strain out all the algae and debris. He’d sanded and painted the footbridge; he’d weeded and trimmed the vegetation along the walkways and in front of Rex.

If he was uncertain whether he should remove a stalk or leave it, he always erred on the side of leaving it—because he knew that’s what Sophie would want.

When an appalled groundskeeper discovered Reese working in the garden, he’d tried to take over, but Reese wouldn’t allow it.

He wanted this project. Needed this work. Craved this connection to Sophie.

Every sore muscle and aching joint reminded him of her, and somehow, that made it easier for him to sleep a few hours each night.

Now that Friday had arrived, he wanted time to slow to a crawl. The hackney cab waited one block over, ready to take Sophie and him back to Warshire Manor.

When at last she smiled and waved at him through the window of the tailor’s shop, his chest squeezed. The next twelve hours were all theirs.

He’d known she’d be eager to see the garden again, so as soon as they alighted from the cab, he set her bag inside the front door, grabbed a lantern, and led the way through the house and out the back door.

The night was warm and overcast, making it difficult to see beyond the light of the lantern, but Sophie seemed to notice everything.

“The footbridge,” she exclaimed. “Oh, Reese, the black finish is perfect—such a stark but beautiful contrast to the white stone of Cerberus. I love that he’s in full view now, too, taking up his post as our loyal guard dog.”

He tried not to grin at her use of the pronoun our, but felt his face crack anyway. “You can have a better look at everything in the morning. All the tasks on the original list are completed, so you’ll need to let me know what you’d like to see accomplished next.”

“Yes,” she mused. “I’m sure there’s more that could be done to restore this place, but I’ll need to think on it … after I’ve spent some more time here.”

He stroked his jaw to hide the smile that resurfaced at the thought of her spending more time at Warshire Manor. “Are you tired?” he asked.