Unraveled (Turner #3)(71)

Be well.

—Ash

He’d written it out entirely by himself. He wouldn’t have taken that trouble if he were irreparably angry. Smite drew a deep sigh of relief.

He imagined that Miranda must have gone to bed by now. But when he wandered down the hall to her room, he found her oil lamp burning at the dimmest setting. She sat on the edge of the lace coverlet and stared at the wall.

“Miranda Darling,” he said, as sternly as he could manage. “You ought to be asleep.”

He ought to be watching her.

She turned to him and gave him a wan smile. “Do you suppose I’ll see Robbie again?”

“I’m sure of it.” He sat next to her on the bed and pulled her into his embrace.

He didn’t think she had followed what he had said to its logical conclusion. If Robbie had to be sent away from Bristol, so did Miranda. And if Miranda went…

This had been inevitable, since the day he’d kissed her.

He could recall that moment now. The luminous look of her eyes. The quiver in her voice. Kiss me, he’d said, and make it worse.

He’d not realized then how bad it was going to be. When Miranda left, he would be alone. He had known this was coming. He hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

“He needs to know that I’m not leaving him,” Miranda said. “He’s been left so many times. I’ve never been a parent to him, but I’m all that he has.”

“He’ll know,” Smite said. “He’ll know because you’ll tell him. And then you’ll write to him, and when it’s safe, you’ll come and get him.”

Smite felt a tug of wistful envy. She’d come back to Bristol to see Robbie; of course she would. Maybe he could get Robbie to tell him how she fared over the years. Years. Robbie would meet her husband. Her children.

His fist clenched around the coverlet.

“Will you take me to visit him?” Miranda asked. “While he’s there.”

It took Smite a moment to realize that she was still talking about Robbie. His fist clenched even further and he looked away. “No.”

Her breath rushed in.

“I don’t go to Shepton Mallet,” he finally offered.

“You’re going tomorrow, are you not?”

He shut his eyes. He hadn’t been back to Shepton Mallet since he and Mark had escaped, all those years ago. It had been decades, now, and still he felt that cold chill creep over him.

“Tomorrow,” he said more to himself than to her, “it can’t be helped. What can’t be helped must be tolerated.”

He didn’t know whether seeing Miranda in his childhood home would make the place bearable, or if it would taint his memories of her forever.

“That hardly sounds auspicious,” she said. “And you’re doing it for me. I might almost think that you tolerated me, too.” She was looking directly in his eyes as she spoke.

“Would you know,” he finally said, “I’ve hit the end of my sentimentality quota for the day.”

“How can that be? That’s the first remotely sentimental thing I’ve said tonight.”

“Yes, but…” But he’d been wallowing in sentiment all evening. “I’ve spent the last minutes memorizing you,” he finally said. He didn’t think that memory could capture the bright color of her hair, though, or the intelligent light in her eyes. Memory would never quite capture the luminous look she’d given him on the carriage ride home after the opera. Even a memory as clear as his couldn’t call back the precise feel of her seated next to him, or the texture of her fingers against his. And he never could recall scents once they’d gone.

He folded his arms and set aside the inevitability of the future. There was only the present. In the present, Miranda was here. Solid. Touchable. He held her close, breathing her in. She smelled like mint tea—sweet and cool. Calming.

He wouldn’t be able to hold the feel of her in his memory after she’d gone. Still, he could try.

SMITE HADN’T THOUGHT THROUGH what would happen when he arrived on his brother’s doorstep after a lengthy journey. His brother must have seen him arrive from the upstairs window, because instead of waiting for him to be announced like a rational human being, Mark crashed through the door, his face utterly white. He grabbed hold of Smite’s arms before he’d had a chance to properly step down from the phaeton.

“Oh, God,” Mark said in urgent tones. “It’s Ash, isn’t it?”

“What about Ash?”

Mark shook him. “What’s wrong with Ash? Why are you here?”

Smite stared at his brother in confusion. His brother’s fingers gripped his arms all the more tightly. His blond hair seemed wild on the top of his head. His bare hands were stained in ink.

In fact, he’d smeared ink on Smite’s cuff.

It was easier to concentrate on his younger brother than to pay attention to his surroundings. Behind him, he could see the entryway of his childhood home. The door was clean and new, painted a bright blue in color. Mark had replaced the older front windows with clear, smooth glass, so that the entry shone with sunlight. It wasn’t the same house, he told himself.

But beneath the fading scent of the lavender that had been planted by the front entry, the house smelled the same. There was something about that peculiar combination of wood and stone that brought to mind old memories—as if the unquiet ghost of his mother still lingered.