She should look away. She should, but her eyes lingered. And then she reached into her sleeve and pulled out the handkerchief she had made him.It is time he answers my questions.
As she walked toward him, the memory grew more vivid:
April sat near the hearth, a bit apart from the others. May and June were sprawled across the carpet, tangled in a game of cat’s cradle and shouting nonsense at each other. The fire crackled. Shadows danced across the walls.
“April, come play,” May had called, holding out a loop of thread.
“Not now,” April said, her needle poised carefully. “I’m embroidering.”
June looked up, frowning. “Since when do you care about embroidery?”
“Since now,” April replied, focused, her tongue between her teeth. The linen was rough beneath her fingers, but she liked the feeling. She wanted this to be perfect.
The drawing room door opened. Dorothy swept in, brisk as always. “What is this? April, why are you not playing?”
“I’m practicing,” April said, lifting the square of linen. “See?”
Her mother took it, brows lifting. “Hm. That’s quite decent, actually. The stitches are a little crooked but well defined.”
“I want it to be good,” April said, trying not to sound too eager. “I’m making it for someone.”
Outside, through the tall windows, two figures walked across the snowy lawn. August, laughing, and beside him, Theo. The wind flushed their cheeks pink. Theo had a new coat, navy blue and thick, better than the worn one he’d arrived in. He looked warmer. Safer. Less like the haunted boy who had first arrived and more like someone settling into the warmth of a real home.
April stared a long moment. Then she reached for her pencil and lightly sketched the letters T and R into the corner of the cloth.
She would stitch them in blue. Deep blue. The exact shade of his eyes.
Back in the present, April stepped closer to the tide.
“Theo,” she called softly, her voice nearly lost to the hush of the waves.
He turned, surprised. The moonlight touched his face, outlining the sharp line of his jaw, the softness in his eyes. The sea lapped at his ankles. He did not speak, but he waited.
She moved to him, one careful step at a time, until they stood only a pace apart. “Do you remember this?” she asked, unfolding the handkerchief from her palm.
His gaze dropped to it. He blinked, slowly. “That is mine, April.”
The words sent a thrill through her. “Why did you keep it all these years?”
He hesitated. The question seemed to weigh heavily on his shoulders. She could see his chest rise, the clench of his jaw, the twitch of muscle at his neck where his pulse beat visibly.
“I…”
She took another step and reached up, her fingers brushing lightly against that pulse. The heat of his skin, the strength beneath it, stole her breath.
Her hand drifted lower, across the center of his chest, to where his heart beat steadily.
“You don’t have to say it,” she said quietly. “I think I know. Because I think… I think I’m feeling it too.”
He looked at her then, truly looked, as if seeing through all her defenses. And still, he said nothing, but she saw the truth in his eyes.
April leaned in and kissed him. Not with the heat and urgency of their kiss in the wagon but softly, reverently. Her heart was wide open.
“I won’t push,” she said when their lips parted. “I know it isn’t easy for you. But I can’t pretend not to feel it. Not anymore.”
He wrapped his arms around her in a single, encompassing motion and kissed her again—thoroughly, unreservedly. When he pulled back, he kept her close, forehead resting against hers.
“Our marriage cannot be in name only. Not now.”
