They lapsed into silence again, but it was comfortable now, like they'd cleared something between them, even if neither was quite sure what.
"Gabriel?"
"Mmm?"
"Tomorrow, I want to start on the gardens properly."
"They're frozen."
"I can still clear dead growth, plan for spring."
"There might not be a spring."
"There's always a spring."
"I meant for us. You. Here. This arrangement is temporary, remember?"
"Until spring. That was the agreement."
"And then?"
"Then I leave, and you go back to brooding alone in your dusty house."
"Sounds delightful."
"Doesn't it?"
They both knew they were lying, but sometimes lies were easier than admitting the truth, that spring would come too soon, that temporary was already feeling too permanent, that leaving was going to hurt in ways neither wanted to contemplate.
"I really should go," Clara said, standing this time.
Gabriel caught her wrist, gentle but firm. "Wait."
"Gabriel…"
"Thank you. For tonight. For... listening."
"You'd do the same for me."
"Would I?"
"You already have. That first night. You saved my life."
"That was basic human decency."
"From you? That's practically a miracle."
He almost smiled again. "Go to bed, Clara."
"Will you? Sleep, I mean?"
"I'll try."
"Goodnight, Gabriel."
She made it to the door before turning back. He was still sitting at the piano, silhouetted against the window, looking like a gothic novel's fondest dream.
"The song," she said. "Your mother and mine. They knew each other, didn't they? Before."
