“Clever,” he acknowledged. “And perilous.”
“Everything worth doing is perilous,” she said, the old steel returning to her voice. “I will not waste what you have paid. I will not waste what I have dared.”
He reached for an orange slice, cut the peel away, and offered it across the small space. She took it, their fingers not quite touching.
The candles bent as a mild breeze found them. He felt the night shift, not to warn, but to acknowledge that two people had altered its ordinary shape.
“You have told me the purpose,” he reminded her quietly. “You wish to run.”
“Yes.”
“You have not told me the reason that makes running urgent.”
She looked at the flame again, and Victor saw her hesitation.
“You do not have to tell me,” he added. “It is not part of our deal. I ask because I wish to know what hunts you, so that I do not accidentally open the gate and let it into my garden.”
That surprised her into silence. Then she nodded once, not as a pledge, but as a promise to consider the question when her courage had recovered from the journey it had already made tonight.
He accepted the small victory and swiftly changed the topic. “Tomorrow you will return through the same passage.”
“Yes.”
“You will carry the silk blindfold.”
“I will.”
“You will inform your maid that she is to wake up if you do not come by two.”
“She wakes up anyway,” Gwen said softly. “She has learned to sleep like a cat.”
“Then we will honor her vigilance by giving it no cause to sharpen.”
They sat in the small circle of candlelight until the hour crept near the half. Victor did not press for more of her story. She did not ask for more proof of his discretion.
When she rose, he rose with her. He tied the silk blindfold again with the same careful hand and led her back down the quiet path that remembered their steps.
At the gate, he untied the cloth and placed it in her palm. Her eyes met his, steady and dark.
“Tomorrow, at quarter to twelve,” he said.
She did not promise. But she did not need to. He could feel the promise in the way her fingers closed over the silk, as if she held both a weapon and a guide.
He watched her slip into the night until the hedge swallowed her. Then he stood alone a moment longer, listening to the gravel remember her passing.
CHAPTER 9
Victor woke with the unwelcome heaviness of a man who had slept past his habits. Pale daylight crept between the edges of the curtains, too bold for the hour he preferred.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, exhaled once, and swung his legs to the floor. He disliked sleeping in. It made the day feel already disordered, as if he had neglected some crucial machinery that depended on his precision to start.
He dressed quickly, selecting a dark coat and waistcoat without care for the subtlety of color. His valet offered to shave him, but Victor waved him off with a quiet instruction to prepare coffee.
The odd remnants of last night still clung to him, like threads caught in a cuff. He tried to push them aside. He had already done enough damage to his morning to disturb the balance required for the rest of the day.
Still, when he descended the staircase, he had not fully regained his composure. The scent of tea drifted from the drawing room, along with the unmistakable lilt of his mother’s voice.
Dorothea Stephens spoke in a manner that suggested perpetual delight in the world, though her eyes often carried a different story.
