Nin’s throat clenched, a cry wrenched deep from the wells of gratitude and joy.
“It’s all right, sis,” Alain teased. “I’m not dead, see? I told you I was getting better.”
“I know,” she sniffed against his chest. “And I’m so happy.”
He held her tighter. “I missed you, too, but you should really save those tears for my funeral. Otherwise, you might not have any to spare for when I’m actually gone.”
Nin chuckled a choked sound through her cries and peered up at his dark blue eyes. “Not at this point. I’ll be gone before you at this rate.”
He ruffled her hair, disturbing the messy bun she had pinned in that morning, sending strands to tumble loose around her face.
“Don’t,” she laughed, the sound scratching against her raw throat. “I finally managed to keep my hair in place for once.”
“That’s a first!”
She swatted his chest playfully before pulling away, keeping her hands secure around his shoulders, afraid he would vanish into thin air if she let go. A sense of disbelief lingered despite the wool-blended fabric of his coat beneath her fingers. She kept looking at his face to reassure herself that she was here with him. But the strength in his stance, the weight in his steps when he shifted, reassured her of this moment once more.
An awkward cough sounded behind them.
They turned, and a physician with a white wig over his wrinkled forehead offered a small, patient smile.
“Your brother has made remarkable progress, mademoiselle,” he said, approaching with his hands folded behind his back. “With the help of good rest, clean air, and a new environment, the medicine has worked wonders.”
Alain stepped from Nin’s grasp and clapped the physician on the shoulder. “Monsieur Roche is being humble. He really helped me through this recovery. I feel good enough to probably outrun you, sis!”
Monsieur Roche sighed. “I would advise against that for now.” He turned to Nin, “Please ensure the young man does not overexert himself.”
Nin bit the smile tempting her lips and grasped a hand around her brother’s arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him out of trouble.”
The physician nodded, his expression easing as though relieved to have someone else to rein in her brother now that he had regainedsome strength.
When Monsieur Roche took his leave, Nin turned her attention to the lush green hedges lining the property, and a man with graying hair paused in his trimming to tip his hat at her before continuing his work.
“That’s Paul,” Alain said, gesturing to the man and waving to him. “He’s our groundskeeper.”
Nin nodded, hardly comprehending the words"our"and"groundskeeper"within the same sentence.
The cottage was nothing like the palace. There were no guards on every corner, no vast hallways glittering with gold and luminous crystals, or velvets draping the windows. It was quaint and cozy—away from the false glamour of the palace.
“It’s perfect,” she breathed, leaning her head against Alain’s shoulder.
“You should see inside,” he said, nudging her toward the door.
She allowed him to lead her, and she paused at the threshold, drinking in the sight with her hand over her heart. Her shoulders eased, inch by inch, as she stepped inside. A low fire burned in the hearth, its light flickering against the timber crisscrossing over the walls. A pair of green-upholstered chaises, a sturdy wooden table and chairs, and a fresh vase of flowers sat in the living space. Beyond that, she glimpsed several doors and a narrow staircase winding toward the second floor.
“We have more than one room!” she declared with a soft breath of wonder.
Alain chuckled behind her. Even though she’d logically grasped the idea of receiving a home, seeing it firsthand was a profoundly different experience.
“Yes, and it’s all ours,” Alain said, stepping out of her grasp and turning around with his arms spread open. “Isn’t this incredible? I’ve been dying for you to see it for yourself!”
Nin took another tentative step over the rug and then another. Her fingers brushed against the curve of a chair, relishing its smoothness. Nothing here sparkled or demanded anything from her.
For the first time, she belonged.
“Madame Colette bakes bread every morning,” Alain said, opening a door into a kitchen. “She’s out getting supplies for the week, but she’s an excellent cook.”
A loaf of bread, crisp to the touch, sat on the wooden counter.
