She let it land. She gave it the space it needed. I’ll be at Lady Whitmore’s house tonight.
And then my father arrives. And after that She didn’t finish the sentence.
She didn’t need to. She walked back through the conservatory and into the drawing room and back into the afternoon reception.
And she did not look back, because she had said what she had to say and it was done and the rest was not in her hands. Maximilian stood among the palms for a very long time.
He thought about everything she had said. And then he thought about the thing she had not said. The thing underneath all of it.
The thing he had finally, undeniably, understood. He had spent years telling everyone within earshot that he was too old to choose a bride.
And in doing so, had chosen the most comfortable kind of cowardice available to a man of his position. The kind that looks like philosophy.
She had given him his answer. Now, he had to give her his. The clock on the mantelpiece at Whitmore House struck 12.
Ada was in her room, not sleeping. She had not expected to sleep. She was sitting in the chair by the window with a book she had not opened, watching the street below in the particular way you watch for something you don’t quite permit yourself to name.