The courtyard was cold.
March cold — the specific cold of a season that was transitioning and hadn’t completed the transition, the air carrying both winter’s memory and spring’s possibility simultaneously. She had her coat and he had his and they sat on the low wall with the courtyard lights on and the kitchen warm behind them and the city doing its evening thing beyond the walls.
The dinner had wound down at nine. Rosa had been the last to leave, which was her way — she stayed until she was satisfied that everything was in order and the building was as it should be. Diana had gone upstairs through the connecting door. Marco had left with James Carver who was staying in the city tonight. Frank had gone with the specific quality of someone who was carrying something good and was being car
