“I will,” he said.
She held his eyes a moment longer.
“Not tonight only.”
“Not tonight only,” he agreed.
The fire crackled softly behind them. For the first time in weeks, he did not reach for the door. Instead, he pulled out the chair he had vacated earlier.
“Will you sit?” he asked.
It was a small gesture. Margaret allowed herself a small nod and returned to her place at the table. He sat opposite her, and suddenly the room did not feel so vast. Silence settled, but it was no longer sharp.
“You said the house feels large at night,” he said after a moment.
“It does.”
“It always has,” he replied.
She looked up at him.
“Even when you were a child?”
“Especially then.”
The answer surprised her.
“You grew up here,” she said. “Did you not?”
“Yes.”
“And it felt empty?”
He leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze drifting toward the darkened windows.
“My father was often away,” he said. “When he was present, he preferred order to conversation.”
Margaret listened, not interrupting.
“My mother filled the rooms when she could,” he continued. “But she was ill for many years.”
“I did not know that,” Margaret said softly.
“It was not discussed. The topic was forbidden entirely, and I suppose that has remained with me.”
He rested his forearms on the table now, posture less guarded than before. Margaret could not believe what she was hearing. She had defended him, and she was pleased to have done so, for the moment she had asked for more, the moment she told him she wanted him to unfold himself, he had done so.
“As a boy,” he said, “I learned that silence kept things steady. Noise unsettled them. Disagreement exhausted them. It was easier to simply do what was necessary and leave matters there.”
The word carried weight. Margaret watched him carefully.
“And that efficiency followed you.”
“Yes.”
She hesitated.
“Did anyone sit with you in the evenings?”
