“Rubbish,” said Griffin.
Her answer was swift, her voice was firm, and her certainty was palpable. Penelope went all over red, thrumming with the sweet shock of that single word. She was unspeakably glad the darkness and the flickering light would hide her reaction from the woman who’d caused it.
“You’ve been unlucky, that’s all,” Griffin went on. As though she weren’t tearing down the foundations of Penelope’s carefully built-up solitude. “You are extremely kindhearted and sweet, Flood—but you’re also observant and cautious, two things that aren’t often found in the kind of person who lets themselves get swept up in reckless love affairs. Especially where...” She paused for a moment. “Especially where there is good reason to be cautious.”
Penelope felt turned into a statue, stiff as marble and leached of color.
Griffin leaned forward. “Do you know what I think?”
Penelope shook her head.
Griffin’s eyes were bright with anger. “I think you let your brother and his beloved overwhelm you. I think you so wanted to help them, in whatever way you could, that you sacrificed your own happiness for theirs.”
Penelope shifted in her seat. “Marriage was never in my future.”
Griffin made a wordless noise rejecting this statement.
Penelope felt a flicker of temper, shoring up the unsteadiness of her voice. “Marriage as it is practiced in England is not made for women like me.”
Griffin openly scoffed at that. “Don’t be ridiculous, Flood: you are one of the sweetest, strongest, truest people I have ever met in my life. You worry about everyone’s happiness. You want the best for all your family, friends, and neighbors—even the ones you don’t like. And I don’t know if anyone’s told you this in a while, but you’re lovely to look at. On top of everything warm and wonderful about you, you are absolutely beautiful. I can’t imagine a single reason—”
“It’s because of women!” Penelope exploded.
It was a harsh cry, close to a shout, and it made Griffin rear back in her seat.
Cheeks burning, Penelope lowered her volume back to a whisper. Her voice was just one more shadow in the darkness. “All my life, I have only ever loved women. And I cannot marry a woman, under English law. So it didn’t seem to matter much if I married somebody else. For practical reasons.” She heaved a frustrated breath, furious to have lost control. “So.”
The silence stretched out, and Penelope’s nerves stretched with it.
Her mind helpfully offered up all the awful possibilities Griffin could say in response. The best Penelope could hope for was a new and permanent awkwardness:The less said the better, perhaps, or the terribleI suppose it’s none of my business, really.
The worst thing would be the unmistakable moment where a friend withdrew their friendship while you watched. To see a warm smile fall away, a bright eye turn cold, and to know there was no going back to how it had been before. Penelope had seen it happen half a dozen times in her life, and it never got any easier to bear.
She squared her shoulders and braced herself, as the other woman stared off into the distance. No doubt she was stunned by the truth Penelope had revealed. No doubt Penelope had now officially ruined everything.
“If you could...” Griffin asked slowly. “If you could have married any of the women you loved—would you have?”
It was as though she had asked the question in some language other than English: it took far too long for Penelope’s slow brain to chew through the question. She thought back over her past, with the usual twinge of self-chastisement. “They often went and married someone else instead,” she said at last. “Emma Koskinen, for example, after our brief summer passed.”
Griffin squeaked in surprise.
Penelope chuckled. “I imagine I should have felt more upset about that—but she and Timo were so much better suited, and he was so serious and fascinatingly Swedish, and I was twenty-one and blissfully gay. We all stayed friends, quite easily.” She stretched her legs out, crossing and uncrossing them at the ankles. “Friends have always been more valuable to me, anyway. I’ve never wept over losing a lover; I’ve always regretted losing a friend.” She kept her eyes very fearfully on the lanterns and added: “I should regret the loss of your friendship more than anything in the world, I think.”
She didn’t look around, not even when Griffin spoke in a voice so low and husky Penelope could practically feel it against her skin: “You’ll always have my friendship, Penelope Flood. There’s no question about that.”
Penelope blinked and blinked into the lantern light, determined not to cry.
Griffin cleared her throat and went on talking. “As for the question of Christmas, the answer’s quite simple.”
Now Penelope did glance over. “It is?”
“You’ll invite us to stay for the holiday, and I’ll be very charming to your husband, and if I see you becoming stiff or awkward or anything like that I’ll just turn to you and say,Maybe we need to check on the hive by the print-works, or some other such excuse, and you won’t have to be stuck.” She tilted her head. “If you think that might help.”
Itwassimple, when Griffin said it. Simple—but not small. Penelope felt hope rise up, a fountain overflowing its banks. “You’d do that for me?”
Griffin snorted, the sound bright and joyful in the darkness. “Of course. We’re friends, Flood.”
Could it really be that simple? Penelope had stewed in dread and guilt about this for the better part of a decade, but Griffin sounded so matter-of-fact about the whole thing. As if it was something she was happy to help fix.
