As she read and re-read the same page she tried to dismantle it. Leather. Wood. The soap he used and the cream that lathered his shaving brush. The bristles of that brush. The pomade that went into his hair. Her eyes crested the page to look at him.
When did he last turn a page? A minute? Two?
Adeline turned her own page, the previous page’s contents unseen but not wanting it to look like she wasn’t reading. Winston yawned. Demonstratively. Exaggerated. He stretched his arms and then winced as his ribs complained. Adeline found herself pressing her lips together to suppress a smile.
You seek to show how uninterested you are and crack your ribs further in the process. Poetic justice.
The clock ticked, the firewood cracked. Adeline concentrated on her breathing, feeling that it was too heavy, too fast. In the heavy silence, it felt that Winston would know her thoughts by the urgent panting.
I am not panting. I am breathing normally. I am not thinking of him. I am reading.
She felt a small thrill as Winston slapped his book closed and thumped it down onto the table. He glared at her. At least she felt that was what he was doing. She noticed how his head turned in her direction using her peripheral vision. She waited for a slow count of five and glanced up from the book. The meeting of their eyes sent a spark through her.
“Will you tell me the name of the cad who hurt you?” Winston said abruptly.
He looked angry. Adeline’s breath caught. The question was unexpected. She swallowed.
“Why do you wish to know?”
“Will you tell me?” he demanded.
Adeline put the book down because her hands were trembling. She folded them in her lap to disguise the fact.
“Why do you wish to know?” she repeated.
“So, that I may look out for him.”
“And take revenge on my behalf?”
Winston drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, lips tightening.
“Have you been dwelling on this?” Adeline asked.
“Of course not. It has just come into my head,” Winston said brusquely.
“Well then, I will withhold his name against a time when you have fully considered the implications of knowing it. I do not think it wise to act on impulse and would not have you compromising yourself for my sake.”
He levered himself from his chair, clutching at his injured ribs. When Adeline got up, he raised a hand.
“I must learn some independence. You have been carrying me around all morning.”
“Hardly.”
“I think I will soak in hot water for a while to soothe my aching muscles. You will excuse me.”
His tone was coldly formal and Adeline wondered if he was offended that she had not trusted him with the name of the man she was so afraid of.
His name is Harston, as is mine. That is why I cannot tell you.
Late in the afternoon, she went in search of Winston again. She had spent a couple of languid hours, listless and unable to concentrate. The time alone with Winston had felt wonderfully intimate. The things he had told her about himself made the physical intimacies that they had already shared seem paltry by comparison. That was just their bodies. Knowing something of his history, of his mind, made her feel far closer to him, and she found herself craving more of that.
She hesitated at his door, hearing the faint splash of water and the muted groan that followed.
“Winston?”
No answer, then another sound, more frustrated than pained. She knocked once and opened the door. The screen by the hearth had been pushed aside. Steam clouded the air. Winston sat half-submerged in the copper bath, one arm braced against the rim. The look he gave her was equal parts mortification and relief. Adeline spun around, facing the other way.
“Adeline…I didn’t expect…”
