Grief was strange that way. It didn't fade so much as transform, becoming part of the landscape rather than the whole of it. You learned to navigate around it, to build your life in its shadow, but it never truly disappeared.
She wondered if Sebastian had anyone to share his grief with. Richard had been his closest friend, she knew that much. But who else? Sebastian was not known for his warmth or his willingness to form attachments. He moved through society with the same sardonic detachment he had displayed tonight, keeping everyone at arm's length.
Everyone except Richard. And now Richard was gone.
Stop it, she told herself firmly.You are not going to feel sorry for Sebastian Vane. He laughed at your poetry. He humiliated you in front of your family. Whatever loneliness he feels, he has brought upon himself.
But the words rang hollow, even in her own mind. The truth was, she didn't know why Sebastian had laughed that day. Shehad never asked, had never given him the chance to explain. She had simply decided he was cruel and built her hatred upon that foundation, brick by careful brick, until the wall was too high to see over.
The type who builds walls. Very high ones.
Curse him for seeing that. Curse him for naming it so precisely.
From across the room came the sound of movement, sheets rustling, and the creak of the bed frame. Sebastian, apparently, was not sleeping either.
"Are you awake?" His voice came soft through the darkness.
Harriet considered pretending otherwise. But what was the point? "Yes."
"Ah. I had hoped one of us might find rest."
"It would seem not."
A pause. Then: "Would you like to talk? Sometimes I find conversation more restful than silence."
"What would we talk about?"
"I don't know. Anything. Nothing." Another pause. "We could discuss the weather. I understand it's a traditional topic for English people who have nothing else in common."
Despite herself, Harriet felt her lips twitch. "The weather is abysmal. There. I believe that exhausts the subject."
"You undersell yourself. We could discuss the variations in abysmal, the particular quality of the rain, the intensity of the wind, the probability of flooding by morning…"
"Lord Vane."
"Sebastian. If we're going to be awake together in the dark, we might as well dispense with formalities."
Her name would be the reciprocal offering. The expected exchange. But something in her resisted giving him her Christian name as it felt too intimate, and too much like surrender.
"I am not certain we are on first-name terms," she said instead.
"We are sharing a bedchamber. I should think that qualifies."
"Under duress. I did specify the badger option first."
"So you did. Though I maintain the badger should feel insulted by the comparison."
Harriet found herself almost smiling. This was... not what she had expected. This easy back-and-forth, this gentle teasing. It felt dangerously close to comfortable.
"Why don't you sleep well?" she asked, surprising herself. "You mentioned demons. Regrets."
The silence stretched long enough that she thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was different, quieter, stripped of its usual sardonic edge.
"I said things I shouldn't have. Did things I can't undo. The usual litany of human failure." A soft, humourless laugh. "I'm not certain I deserve to sleep well, most nights. Perhaps the insomnia is penance."
"That's rather melodramatic."
"Yes, well. It's easier to be melodramatic in the dark. The light demands more dignity."
