A few nights afterwards, when the fire’s been lit and we’re at the table in the parlour working on our respective projects, he goes out to the kitchen to make tea. Upon coming back, he places my new Brontë mug on the table next to my right elbow.
‘Thanks,’ I say distractedly, continuing to type. A few minutes later, I reach for the mug and see a square cream-coloured envelope propped against it with a curly GothicLon the front.
‘What’s this?’ I ask him.
‘Open it and see.’ He sits down with his own tea and a little smile.
I sip my tea and continue typing, feeling oddly nervous about whatever that envelope contains. He keeps glancing at me and at the envelope, and I know I’m stalling. I’m about to say I’ll open it later in my room, but my phone buzzes. I read the message and grunt in annoyance.
Dain looks up from his manuscript, inky quill paused. ‘What is it?’
I click out of the curt message. ‘Klint. He says he’s going to give my stuff to charity if I don’t come and collect it by next week.’
Dain’s fingers tighten on his quill. ‘That’s a bit extreme.’
‘This is Klint—he only operates in extremes.’
‘So I guess you’re going to Oxford?’
I sigh. ‘I don’t want to, but it looks like I’ll have to. There are books I don’t particularly want him donating and clothes I want to keep too.’
I know I should’ve sorted this out before, but I’ve been enjoying Klint going AWOL and not messaging me.
‘There’s space in the bookcase if you want to put your books in there,’ says Dain.
I look over at the floor-to-ceiling bookcase stuffed to the gills with classics and his own novels.
‘Are you sure? There doesn’t look like a lot of room ...’
‘I’ll make room. I want you to feel like this is your home too.’
Warmth spreads throughout my solar plexus. Dain sharing his bookcase means a lot, especially as I know he treasures every book in it.
‘Thanks, that’s nice of you. It’s all nineteenth-century fiction, so at least it will be on brand.’
He smiles. ‘When will you go?
‘As soon as possible, I guess. Once I’ve booked my train.’
He nods. I bring up Trainline and start planning how I’m going to transport my stuff back. I’ll take a change of clothes in my tote, go with my empty suitcase, and fill it as full as I can. Whatever’s left over, Klint can give to charity. I want to get in and get out of the flat and make the visit as painless as possible.
Dain clears his throat and looks pointedly at the cream-coloured envelope.Oh yes, that.
My gut clenches and unclenches in quick succession. But with him watching expectantly, there’s nothing for it but to open the envelope. I draw out a small piece of blank card of the same colour.
‘Other side,’ he says.
I turn it over, and whatever I’ve been expecting, it’s not this.
It’s a tiny pen-and-ink sketch of a woman in a chair reading a book titledWH—it looks like me. But if so, it’s a more elegant version, with my hair up and wearing a nineteenth-century dress. It’s incredibly detailed and beautifully done. My pulse rate increases; he’s spent a lot of time on this.
‘Well, do you like it?’ he asks, sounding unsure since I haven’t spoken a word.
‘I absolutely love it,’ I tell him quickly. ‘It’s incredible, so detailed. I didn’t know you could draw as well!’
Dain runs a hand through his hair and looks embarrassed. ‘Another of my hobbies. I was looking at the one Charlotte did of Anne and got inspired. It’sWuthering Heights, by the way, the book. I couldn’t fit the whole title in, so I putWH.’
I gulp, gingerly holding the card between my index fingers. The book reference and knowing that he spent a lot of effort on it are enough to start me welling up. Shit, I can’t start crying all over it—the ink will smudge! Hastily, I pop it back into the envelope for safe keeping.
