“We can play,” he relented at last. “But you will not succeed in drowning me in notes.”
“You are very determined to be difficult,” she huffed. “I came to forget my future for an hour, not to hold a committee over it.”
“You did not come only for that,” he said.
She ignored the truth in that and placed her hands on the keys again. Her fingers felt clumsy now, too aware of him, too awareof herself. She began another melody, more serious this time, something minor and thoughtful. It steadied her, or so she told herself.
He joined her again, filling the empty spaces her playing left. The chords deepened, grew richer, yet the unease inside her only sharpened. Each note began to feel like a step closer to a question she could not answer.
She faltered, before her hands stilled on the keys.
“The nunnery,” he uttered quietly, as if naming an ordinary destination. “Is that it?”
Her head snapped up. “I did not say that.”
“You did not need to.” His lips twisted. “There are not many places a troublesome girl may be sent when a man wishes to silence her.”
Cold slid through her veins. “I am not troublesome.”
“You are troublesome tohim,” Victor emphasized. “Not to me.”
It should not have mattered. But it did. The distinction made her eyes sting.
She looked away quickly. “He believes I am useless. A burden. I suppose it will be a relief to have me tucked safely away where I cannot ruin anything further or bring more shame to my family.”
“Do you believe that?” he asked quietly.
“I believe he has already decided,” she said. “Though my belief is of very little consequence.”
Her throat tightened on the last word. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep it from trembling. She would not cry here. Not in front ofhim.
The bench shifted. She felt rather than saw him turn toward her. A hand touched her shoulder, warm and steady, not urging, only being there.
That alone threatened to undo her. She had expected demands, not this simple, quiet presence.
“You intend to run,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“With your mother.”
“If I can,” she whispered.
“And your brother?”
“William is at school.” She swallowed. “He is safer there than he will be anywhere with us.”
Silence wrapped around them, dense as velvet. Gwen felt as if she had stepped out onto a thin ledge and spoken into a darkness that might or might not answer.
“Look at me,” Victor urged.
She turned slowly. His hand slid from her shoulder to the back of the bench, close but not quite touching her. His eyes were very clear.
“You do not trust me,” he acknowledged. “You have told me so. Yet you ask me to pay for a flight whose end you will not describe. You come to my house at night. You hide in my shadows. And when I ask what hunts you, you turn your head and give me scraps.”
“I have given you more than I have given anyone,” she said, more sharply than she had intended. But then the sharpness broke, revealing the rawness beneath. “Is that not enough for your curiosity?”
“I am no longer curious,” he replied.
