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Something that can’t be rushed.

Something that costs time.

Something that proves I stayed long enough and cared deeply enough to finish what I started.

I think of the way she handled those blooms at dawn, careful and precise, as if they mattered. I think of the way her breath caught when she learned I knew what they were, and how she spoke about happiness like a thing you earned, not something handed over freely.

I’ll give her space.

I won’t crowd her or charm her or press where I’ve been told not to tread.

I’ll take the time and do the work. When I go to her with proof of my interest, she can refuse it if she likes—but she’ll know, at least, that I didn’t come to her empty-handed or empty-hearted.

The fire crackles softly, settling deeper into itself.

So do I.

CHAPTER NINE

ROBERT

Bealtaine was once one of my favourite days of the year.

Fire and music. Laughter. The promise that winter truly is behind us.

Tonight, it drained me instead. Every cheer was too loud. Every smile borrowed. I spent the day playing my part, raising a cup, answering questions, letting myself be seen, until my body ached from the effort of holding myself together. Until I couldn’t carry it for another hour.

I carry too much with me now.

Leaving Trinity should have marked a clean break. Anger. Resolve. The sharp, bright line of conviction. Instead, it has left everything blurred at the edges.

And then there’s Thomas.

Taken off to Dublin’s prison, Kilmainham Gaol, for the company he kept and the rebellion he gave himself to, as if a man’s mind can be seized like contraband. I have tried to keep my face steady through it, as if my brother’s name is not a weight in my throat, as if the thought of him behind a locked door doesn’t follow me into every room.

I’ve never been good at setting these sorts of things aside.

So I step away from the revelry, letting the cold bite through my wool. It should cool me, but doesn’t.

I keep walking because standing still feels worse. Because if I stop, my thoughts will turn again, and I’ve had my fill of that for one day.

I’ve barely escaped the spill of voices and song before my name reaches me.

“Mr Emmet.”

Night rearranges itself around her.

She stands half in shadow, half in moonlight. The Sutherland lady’s maid. Charlotte, maybe?

Names feel irrelevant beside the way my focus narrows. I’ve been aware of her gaze since the moment I arrived. Measuring. Lingering. Unashamed.

Her cap sits loose, and the front ties of her dress are unlaced and loosened on purpose—bodice gaping enough to invite notice—and slivers of hair escape at her nape. Pure temptation made flesh.

“You’ve some neck tonight,” I say.

She smiles. Small. Expectant.

“D’ye no’ welcome it?” she asks, already reading the answer in the way my gaze doesn’t move away.