Thomas was already on his feet. “Bucket.”
“Right. Bucket. Yes. Medieval emergency response protocol.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She grabbed the nearest bucket, which unfortunately contained something she chose not to identify in the dark, dumped it into the rushes because priorities had shifted, and shoved it beneath the new leak. Water slapped into it with impressive force.
“That is not enough,” Thomas said.
“No kidding.”
He shot her a look.
“Sorry. Yes. More buckets.”
A sleeping dog stood, shook himself again, and fled the general area with more sense than most people.
Hob’s voice rose from somewhere near the wall. “If the roof comes down, wake me after it’s done.”
“Go back to sleep,” Thomas snapped.
“I was asleep until the sky entered the hall.”
Amelia dragged a second bowl across the floor. “Useful help, Hob. Very inspiring.”
“Mistress Quinn?”
“Yes?”
“Tell the roof I said it is a goat-brained lout.”
Despite everything, she laughed. Not because it was funny enough. Not because she was now wet to the elbow, barefoot, and fairly certain some roof water had gone down her sleeve. She laughed because the night had cracked open too wide, because Thomas had said her name as if it pained him, because grief had been sitting beside the fire wearing his face, because the universe had apparently decided emotional intimacy was best interrupted with structural failure.
The laugh came out half a sob.
Thomas heard that too. Of course he did. He caught the edge of the bucket as it tipped, steadied it, then looked at her.
“You are wet,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I am used to it.”
“What a tragic sentence.”
His mouth twitched. The moment was broken, but not gone. It lingered in the air between them while they moved through the half-dark gathering bowls, shifting a bench, dragging a pallet away from the damp, and trying not to wake the entire household. They failed. Edith appeared wrapped in a dark cloak, hair braided down her back, eyes narrowed to slits.
“What now?”
“The roof has decided to give way,” Amelia said.
Edith took in the buckets, the wet rushes, Thomas’s damp sleeves, Amelia’s dripping elbow, and the jug of wine by the hearth.
Her gaze moved from one to the other.
Amelia braced herself, but Edith only sighed. “I told Walter that patch would not hold.”
