Gabriel was quiet for a moment. "You could find yourself a husband."
"Who? The blacksmith's son who picks his teeth with horseshoe nails? The widowed farmer with seven children and roaming hands? Or perhaps you mean someone from my own class, except I don't have a class anymore, do I? Too educated to be a proper servant, too poor to be gentry."
"You're not a servant."
“I am here merely to labour for my wages.”
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because you're you."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
They'd stopped moving, Clara realised. They were just standing there, holding each other in the middle of the morning room, pretending to dance while actually just... holding.
"We should put an end to this,” Clara said again.
"Yes," Gabriel agreed, not moving.
"Gabriel."
"Clara."
They were closer now, though neither remembered moving. Clara could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, could see where his scar interrupted the stubble on his jaw, and could feel his breath on her face.
"If you kiss me," she said quietly, "everything changes."
"Everything's already changed."
"It changes more."
"I am fully aware.”
"We can't go return to where we started.”
"We can never return..."
"Gabriel…"
He stepped away abruptly, dropping his hands, putting distance between them with visible effort. "You're right. We should stop."
The loss of contact felt like a physical blow. Clara wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold.
"I should finish cleaning," she said.
"I should go... somewhere else."
Neither moved.
“This is quite beyond the point of reason.” Gabriel said.
"Completely."
They stood there, carefully avoiding each other’s eyes, carefully maintaining distance, carefully pretending that the last few minutes hadn't happened.
