The city felt smaller the week after the mill trip, like a map drawn with kinder hands. Maybe it was the smell of sawdust still lodged in my clothes, or the memory of Angel’s laugh echoing down that narrow lane, but when we returned the mansion seemed to inhale differently around us — less defensive, more domestic. The house had new confidences: the jar of jam we’d left on the larder shelf, the crooked mug Conley favored, Angel’s herb sketches pinned to the conservatory board. Small things, but they made an architecture of belonging.
Morning began the way it had for months now: a lazy communion of coffee, a slow glance at each other, and the small choreography of getting ready. Conley had an early court date, but he kissed us both before the tie, a quick press that tasted of obligation an
