Despite herself, she smiled—small, unguarded.
“And if this changes nothing?” she asked softly.
“It already has,” he pointed out. “I’m no longer running.”
His thumb stilled against her cheek. The contact suddenly felt unbearable in the best way.
She leaned forward before she could second-guess herself. He exhaled, his forehead lowering until it rested briefly against hers, as though the nearness alone was almost too much.
Their kiss was not hurried. It was warm, certain, deep. His mouth was warm despite the cold.
His hand slid to the small of her back, steadying her as though she might fall again. Her fingers curled into his coat, as if anchoring her to reality.
When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his.
“I love you too,” she confessed, her voice barely above a breath.
Edward closed his eyes for a moment, as though the words struck him somewhere deep and true. Then he laughed softly, quietly, like a man who had just found his way home, brushing his nose against hers.
“That’s inconvenient,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her waist. “I’ve already proven I’m dreadful at wanting you halfway.”
Beatrice folded the piece of paper carefully and tucked it in her bodice.
“Yes.” She couldn’t stop smiling. “I think we’ve established that.”
She had spent so long learning how to endure—how to be composed, correct, unassailable. Standing there now, with her hem damp, cool air on her cheeks, she realized she did not feel on edge at all.
For the first time in longer than she could remember, the path ahead did not look like something to be managed or survived. It looked… open.
She turned toward the carriage at last, his hand still on her back, and let herself believe—fully, deliberately—that she was not walking forward alone.
And this time, she did not look back.
EPILOGUE
Three months later, the orphanage smelled different.
Not better, just different. Clean linen carried its own sharpness now, slate dust lingered faintly near the repaired west wing, and boiled soap clung stubbornly to the corridors no matter how often the windows were opened.
It was the smell of order attempting to settle where chaos had once reigned.
Beatrice stood at the end of the west hall beside Mrs. Allen, her hands folded loosely before her, listening as a boy argued with astonishing conviction about which bed was closer to the window.
“You said we could choose,” he insisted, jabbing a finger toward the offending piece of furniture.
“I said we woulddiscussit,” Mrs. Allen corrected, weary but not unkind.
The boy scowled, kicked the leg of a chair for emphasis, and stalked away.
Beatrice waited until his footsteps faded. “Let him have it.”
Mrs. Allen sighed. “I’ve let him have a lot of things this week.”
“Yes,” Beatrice said thoughtfully. “And he’s still standing. I consider that progress.”
Mrs. Allen gave her a sideways look, then shook her head. “You’re too soft.”
Beatrice smiled faintly. She had been called worse.
