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Two smiles a triumph no empire could rival. Edward remains with her now, likely sitting in that overstuffed chair near her bed, pretending he is not keeping watch while absolutely keeping watch. Which leaves me in the west parlor with Alcott. Alcott, who stands before the fire with a glass of brandy in one hand and the sort of expression that suggests he is either contemplating love or murder. With him, the two are rarely far apart.
“You are brooding,” I say.
“I am reflecting.”
“Brooding with vocabulary.”
He glances at me over one shoulder at my words. Firelight loves Alcott. It catches in the pale strands of his hair, gilds the sharp line of his cheek, warms the severe elegance he pretends not to care about. He is in shirtsleeves tonight, waistcoat discarded, collar open, cuffs rolled to his forearms.
A scandalous state of undress for a man who once adjusted his cravat before disposing of a body.
“I do not brood,” he says.
“You brood scientifically, darling.”
His mouth twitches. “That is better.”
“I thought so.”
I stretch across the sofa, one booted foot hanging over the arm, a book open on my chest. I have not read a word of it in twenty minutes. The plot cannot compete with Alcott staring into flames as if threatening them to confess.
“What are you reflecting upon?” I ask.
He takes a slow sip of brandy. “Whether peace always feels this uncomfortable at first.”
There it is. I close the book and set it aside.
“Peace is a terribly unnatural condition for people like us,” I explain.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “It keeps arriving without warning.”
“That is rude of it.”
“Deeply,” he whispers into the fire.
I sit up. Alcott does not turn fully. His gaze remains on the hearth, but I know when he is letting me near and when he is pretending I cannot see the locked door inside him. Tonight, the door is not locked, only closed. A rare invitation. I rise and cross the room and he watches me approach through the corner of his eye.
“Careful,” he says.
“Of what?” I cock an eyebrow.
“You look sincere.”
“Such an unfortunate accident,” I retort.
“It does not suit you.”
“I disagree. I am devastating when sincere.” I place my hand upon my chest with a smug grin.
“You are devastating when smug.”
“I contain multitudes.” His smile appears properly at my words. It is a small, tired smile and all mine. I stop beside him and lean against the mantel. For a moment, we both watch the fire. No schemes. No screams. No blood drying beneath our fingernails. Just the crackle of wood, the smell of smoke, and the strange, almost unbearable fact that everyone we love is under the same roof and alive.
Alcott’s voice lowers. “She laughed today.”
“Yes.”
“I enjoy what it does to Edward’s face.”
