He felt his resolve soften, the memory of her voice carrying verses through the shadows returning to him with disarming clarity.
“Thank you,” he said at last, low and rough. “For your discretion. And…your kindness.”
“How could I have done anything differently? You were…unhappy. I wished to give you comfort.”
“I was…” Winston realized the depth of the admission in those two words and wished for them back, “I was drunk. Maudlin. That is all.”
“That is fine. I did not read Keats to you to make you happy.”
“You were in the library reciting poetry in the middle of the night, simply for the fun of it?” Winston asked, raising his eyebrow.
Adeline laughed.
“No. Do you not remember? You asked me if I was…well, you asked me what I was doing there.”
A recollection pierced the opaque fog of strong drink, burning through it like the rays of the sun. He had accused her of spying on him.
And she does not wish to remind me of that accusation. Does not want to put the notion of spying back in my mind after I might have forgotten it.
He could feel his suspicion growing. Feel the trust dissolving.
“And you said?” he asked.
“I said that I was choosing a book because I could not sleep. I had a nightmare and always find sleep difficult after it.”
“Is this a recurring nightmare?”
Winston could not help but ask. The story unfolding for him was intriguing. It gave him insights into this lovely creature that herealized he was craving. But what is her plan? Is that what she intended?
“Yes, but now colored by the Briarwood fire. It was a frightening night.”
Winston had been so wrapped up in his distrust that he had not considered the impact of the fire on the survivors. The staff of Briarwood had been absorbed into his own. His mother had seemed as flighty and unreliable as always, though particularly focused when it came to the subject of Adeline.
A sure sign that Adeline has her claws firmly embedded in the mad old woman.
The thought annoyed him. He wanted to be rid of the sly, cynical voice that spoke them. Yet, that voice had been his salvation for years. Had kept him whole and sane. Kept him free from attachment.
Attachment means vulnerability. Weakness. Louisa needs a father who is strong and resilient.
“Yes, a traumatic experience,” he said softly.
“Added to the collection.”
“You have others?”
Adeline colored. Winston suddenly realized that she held his hand in her lap. He had not been aware; the movement had felt so natural that he had not consciously thought of it. She skipped her fingers across his palm. When she saw him looking at their intertwined hands, her eyes went wide. Her cheeks flared, and she released him.
“I’m sorry. I did that entirely without thinking,” she stammered.
“As did I. Do not fret,” Winston replied.
He suppressed the urge to take her hand once more. She sat cross-legged against the bed. He sat close by, also with his back against the bed. It felt oddly intimate even though there was no physical contact between them now. The bleeding appeared to have stopped, and Adeline no longer held the linen against the cut. She still held a blanket around herself.
“What trauma do you speak of?” he asked.
“It is…personal and private,” Adeline said, haltingly.
“You wish to be Louisa’s governess?” Winston said, leaving the question open.
