They broke off, flustered and awkward. But Harriet’s eyes were glowing, and Lydia’s heart felt feather-light. “You were right,” she said. “And I am sorry.”
“So am I,” Harriet said, and held out her hands.
Lydia all but flew forward. Her arms went around Harriet’s shoulders, and Harriet leaned forward to press her head to Lydia’s breast. They stayed there a long while, breathing hard, as though they’d just fought their way free of the rapids of some flood-swollen river.
“I didn’t hope to see you tonight,” Harriet murmured.
“I couldn’t bear not to come,” Lydia replied. She combed Harriet’s chestnut hair back from her temples, tilting her head back until their eyes met. “How could I rest knowing I’d hurt you?”
Harriet shook her head. “It was nothing.”
“It was,” Lydia insisted gently. She trailed her fingertips over Harriet’s chin and cheeks. “I spent all day thinking about what you said—and seeing the truth of it. I ought to have listened better.” She sighed. “I ought to have behaved better without you having to point it out to me.”
Harriet shook her head, within the frame of Lydia’s hands. “Your brother always said you were the best person he’d ever known. I see why, now.”
Lydia snorted. “Are we talking about the same Lydia Wraxhall? The one who reveled in how bitter Mrs. Outerbridge has been about us resurrecting the lost Bickerton breed?”
“It’s not wrong to take satisfaction in something wonderful,” Harriet said. “What you’re doing with the Greys is extraordinary. You deserve to be celebrated for that—not to be nitpicked, just because…” Her mouth flattened. “Just because sometimes the thought of any kind of fighting, even ordinary human disagreement, feels so exhausting I could sink down to the earth and never move again. That’s not your fault: it’s mine.” She glanced up, her grey eyes glinting. “Mrs. Outerbridge is just the kind of petty tyrant who grinds down the spirits of everyone around her—she’s worth pushing back against, if only to show other people that it can be done.”
“Oh yes, make a virtue out of my worst habit,” Lydia said, with a laugh. “No wonder I adore you.”
Harriet froze.
Lydia waited, breath held.
A soft sound from behind them, as someone cleared a throat. “Pardon the interruption,” Mrs. Crangle said, voice bone-dry. “I suppose I’ll be sitting up with Arun tonight?”
“Tonight?” Harriet said, peering around Lydia. “Why?”
“Haven’t you looked outside?”
Harriet went to the window and pulled back the curtain.
Outside: a blizzard.
Lydia gasped. “Walter,” she said. “The tent!”
She sprinted into the hall and yanked open the front door.
Wind and snow swirled around, sending her skirts whipping about her legs. The cold tore at her throat and bit at her hands. Lydia sucked in a breath and the winter burned her lungs, plucked at the hair pinned up on her head.
And a mile away were seven chickens of hers—and everyone else’s, four whole rows of carefully bred creatures—with only a tent between them and this fierce clash of elements.
Lydia made it one step over the threshold before a hand grasped her arm and dragged her back. “Are you mad?” Harriet cried. “You can’t go out in that!”
Lydia shook her head. “Someone has to try and—”
“For God’s sake, woman, are you not more important than chickens?” Harriet’s voice dropped into a low rasp. “Even to yourself?”
Lydia stilled, breathing raggedly.
Harriet’s hand held her arm, and now the other cupped Lydia’s cheek. “There are people in the village, closer to the tent, who can help,” she said. “If you try and make it to Bickerton through this weather, you’ll be lost before you reach the road.”
Lydia shook her head, because she knew it was true. She just wished it weren’t.
Harriet’s voice was low, but clear as a bell: “Listen to someone who loves you,” she said. “Stay.”
Lydia made a wild, wordless sound, turned, and flung herself against Harriet’s chest.
