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"You kissed me in the rain," she said. "Then you ran away. Why?"

He could not answer.

She pressed on. "Was it a mistake? Did I make you do it?"

He tried to speak, but the words tangled. "No⁠—"

"Then what?" Her voice was low, trembling with the force she used to contain it. "Why did you come after me? Why risk your life to find me, if you meant to never speak of it again?"

The air between them was charged, heavy with all the words unsaid. Julian opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Adelaide shook her head. "I will not let you vanish, Julian. I will not be shut out. And I will not allow you to banish your own sister to the shadows because you are afraid of feeling anything at all."

He stepped back, but she followed, boxing him in with nothing but her words.

"You have spent thirteen years punishing yourself for Thomas. For failing him, for surviving. But that is not my burden, and it is not Helena's. You are not the only one who lost him, Julian. And you are not the only one who still feels his absence."

He could not look at her. He focused on the pattern of the rug, the details of the stonework, anything but the fire in her eyes.

She caught his chin in her hand, turning his face to hers.

"I love you," she said, barely audibly.

The words broke him open.

He wanted to say he loved her too, that he had loved her since the day she first told him he was wrong about a Latin verb, that his whole life was bent around her like a moon around a planet. But the words burned in his throat, and his hands shook so badly he could not raise them.

Instead, he whispered, "I am so sorry," and meant it for everything—the storm, the silence, the lie he was about to tell.

Adelaide's hand trembled, but her gaze did not waver.

"Do you feel anything for me, Julian?"

The pressure built, panic swelling in his chest until he thought his ribs would crack. He wanted to say yes, wanted to say it so badly he thought he might burst from wanting, but the guilt, the shame, the memory of Thomas's letter and Thomas's laughter and the years he had spent running all wrapped around his throat and strangled him.

He closed his eyes. The only way to end it was to stop feeling anything at all.

He opened his mouth.

"No," he said.

CHAPTER 32

"No."

The single syllable landed between them, brittle and absolute. Adelaide felt it slice through the last hope clinging to the walls of her chest. He had not even looked at her as he said it.

She managed to stand, but every part of her rebelled against movement. She moved past Julian, eyes stinging, refusing to let a tear fall within his line of sight. The hallway beyond was cold and gray. Even the air in the house recoiled, the hush heavy as grave dirt.

Adelaide placed one gloved hand against the plaster, steadying herself for the dozen paces it took to reach the stairwell. Each step up felt like an accusation: Fool. You wanted too much. You believed him, you believed yourself, and look where that trust has led.

The first sob threatened at the landing. She clamped her jaw so tight she nearly tasted blood.

"Adelaide?"

She nearly missed it—Helena's voice, hesitant, echoing up from the landing below. Adelaide turned. Lady Helena stood just inside the entryway, her hair pinned with three visible sticks, her dress mussed as though she'd dressed in the dark. She regarded Adelaide with a concern that made the whole farce nearly impossible to bear.

"Yes, Lady Helena?" Adelaide tried to sound light. She could hear the break in her own voice and hoped Helena would be too polite to mention it.