Her voice dropped, not softer, but quieter, the way a fire burns lower without going out. And so choose me now, she said, or let me go.
The conservatory was entirely quiet. Somewhere in the house behind them, a door opened and a burst of laughter came through from the drawing room.
And then the door closed again and it was quiet again. He looked at her. And she watched something happen in him.
A process she could not name precisely, but she could see it. The architecture of 40 years of careful distance meeting something it had not been built to withstand.
He opened his mouth, closed it. Something passed across his face that she had not seen there before. Something unguarded and almost raw.
And then he said her name. Just that. Ada. With all the composure gone from it.
She waited. You were 10 years old. His voice was rough at the edges in a way it had never been.
You cannot have You cannot have decided at 10. I decided at 10. And I decided again at 15. And at 18.
And I decided this morning before I came here. Her gaze didn’t waver. How many times does a person have to choose the same thing before it counts?
He had no answer. She hadn’t expected him to. Not immediately. Not with the truth of what she had said still landing.