She smiled then. Not the public smile she had worn earlier for Col and Alyson. Not the quick little deflection she gave Walter when he grew sour over the ledgers. This one was small and private, her eyes glistening.
Thomas felt it like a hand laid over his heart.
“I can’t go back to pretending,” she said.
The words were so quiet the fire nearly took them, but Thomas heard. The whole hall might as well have vanished.
“No,” he said. “Nor can I.”
He didn’t cross the space between them, or take her hand. Nor did he kiss her, though the wanting of it rose in him so strongly he had to look at the fire to keep from moving.
They sat across from one another while the last of harvest-home settled around them, while the mead warmed their blood, the embers glowed red, and the household eased itself toward sleep.
Yet something had changed between them.
Amelia lifted her cup after a moment. “This mead is dangerous.”
Thomas picked up his own cup. “Everything is dangerous according to you. Water. Roofs. Geese.”
“Hob’s French.”
“Hob’s French is banned in three counties.”
“Only three?”
“Four, after tonight.”
From the far table, Hob said, “I heard that.”
Huck raised his cup without looking over. “His French imperils the soul.”
“My soul is sturdy,” Hob muttered.
“Your accent is not,” Amelia said.
Hob considered this, then nodded once. “True.”
The laugh that moved through the remaining men was quiet but real.
Amelia looked at Thomas, and this time she did not look away. Neither did he.
Later, when the hall had emptied nearly to silence, Amelia went to the loft.
Thomas watched her climb the stair. She moved carefully, one hand on the rail, her loosened veil trailing down her back. At the turn she paused, not quite looking over her shoulder before she disappeared above.
The hall seemed colder without her.
Hob had gone at last, half-supporting Col, who had insisted he was not drunk while wobbling toward a wall. The remaining dogs slept under the benches. The fire had burned low. Cupsstood abandoned, trenchers scraped clean, and the remaining wax from the honeycomb stuck to the table.
Huck settled beside Thomas with the ease of a man who had no appointment with haste.
“She is a good woman.”
Thomas looked toward the stair. “You do not know where she came from, none of us do.”
“No.” Huck followed his gaze. “But I have learned that where a soul has been is less important than what it does when it arrives.”
Thomas blew out a breath.
