Amberlough(114)

It had been two weeks. Some people would wait longer, holding on to shrinking hope. Aristide was not one of those people.

It was not heartlessness. On the contrary, he ached. As he moved around the single room of the cottage, gathering what little there was to take, he pleaded with himself: Stay, stay.

But if Cyril was going to come by conventional means, two weeks was more than enough time. If he was going to arrive via miracle, none of Aristide’s actions would hinder him.

As he stuffed the first rolled-up pair of socks into his canvas rucksack, his knuckles brushed the pearls sewn into the lining. He’d never cut them out—there was no place to wear them, though not for the reasons about which Zelda had cautioned him.

He had left this place for something better, once. For furs and footlights, absinthe and artifice. For things he had not even known he wanted. Maybe—it hurt him to hope, but maybe—he could find those things again.

No way to know but try.