Her days developed a quiet rhythm. She lived two lives, and the line between them was the door to St. Brigid's garden.
By day, she was Ziva. She woke in the quiet apartment. She dressed in the soft, colorless clothes Lucien preferred. She went to the office. She fetched coffee for meetings. She printed reports. She spoke when spoken to, and her voice was always low and agreeable. She was a sketch done in faint pencil, easily erased. She made herself small and useful and unremarkable. This was the person Lucien expected to see. She performed the role perfectly.
By night, at least two evenings a week, she was someone else. She told Lucien she was volunteering at the church, helping Eliana with archives. He never questioned it. He was usually busy anyway, either working late to salvage his
