She got into bed. The sheets were cool. The pillow smelled of lavender. She did not sleep for a long time, but she did notmind. Because for the first time in three years, her inability to sleep was not from fear. It was from anticipation. And that, she thought, was worth every sleepless hour.
Tomorrow, Caroline would make her try on dresses. Tomorrow, Edward would follow her instructions and prove that he was humorous. Tomorrow, something would change.
She could feel it coming, the way one felt the weather turn. A shift in the air. A drop in pressure. The hush before a storm broke and the world rearranged itself into something new.
She closed her eyes. Storms did not frighten her anymore. She had danced in one. She had been carried through one. She had been kissed in the ruins of one.
Let it come.
CHAPTER 15
The following morning, Edward must prove that he was humorous.
He was not entirely sure how one proved to have a sense of humor. In his experience, humor was either present or not. It was not a skill one demonstrated on command, like fencing or marksmanship. He had spent twelve years in the intelligence service, and the funniest thing that had happened to him in that time was the incident in Prague with the bread knife, which was not the kind of story one told in polite company.
But before he could ask his bride how exactly he was supposed to do that, her sister Caroline accosted him in the corridor with the efficiency of a pregnant woman who had been planning an ambush since dawn.
She was carrying an easel under one arm and a box of paints under the other. She should not have been carrying either of them in her condition. Her belly led her around corners like the prow of a ship, and she navigated the corridor with the carefuldeliberation of someone who had long since lost sight of her own feet.
“You,” she said. “Sit.”
He looked at the easel. “What is this?”
“A portrait. I am painting you. Sit down.”
“Nobody paints me.”
“I do. And today is the day you must prove you are humorous, so consider this part of the test.” She marched into the drawing room, set the easel up by the window, and pointed at a chair. “Sit. Do not move. Do not glare.”
“I am not glaring.”
“You are always glaring. It is your natural state. Try to look pleasant. Think of something that makes you happy.” She squinted at him. “Or something that does not make you want to kill someone. Either would be an improvement.”
He sat.
He sat because she was six months pregnant and carrying an easel, and arguing with her would be like arguing with the weather: pointless, exhausting, and ultimately futile because the weather was going to do what it wanted regardless.
Caroline set up her canvas. Mixed her paints with the focused efficiency of a woman who knew what she was doing and did not need to be told.
She had talent. He could see it in the way she held the brush, in the way she mixed colors without hesitation, in the way she looked at him with an artist’s eye that saw shape and shadow and light rather than the scar on his jaw or the reputation behind it.
“Now,” she said, lifting the brush, “I am going to ask you some questions, and you are going to answer them honestly.”
“Is this the humor test?”
“This is the finding-out-who-you-are test. The humor is a bonus.” She dabbed at the canvas. Blue for the background. She was fast. “Question one: If Valeria told you she wanted to learn to ride a horse bareback through the countryside, what would you say?”
“I would say she should learn from someone qualified.”
“Wrong answer. The right answer is, ‘I will teach you myself, and we will race.’ Try again.” She mixed a new color. Brown for his hair. She was painting quickly, capturing the broad shape of him before the light changed. “Question two: If Valeria served you a meal she had cooked herself and it was terrible, what would you do?”
“Eat it.”
“Better. Would you tell her it was terrible?”
“No.”
“Also wrong. She would want to know. She would want to improve. She does not want a man who lies to spare her feelings. She wants a man who tells her the soup needs more salt and then helps her fix it.” Caroline shook her head. “You are not very good at this.”
