Chapter 12
The Scarf
“Charles, where is your scarf?”
The question landed softly.
For a moment, Charles only frowned.
“What scarf?”
Then he stopped.
His expression changed so quickly that if I had not spent years studying his face, I might have missed it.
A pause.
A flicker.
A memory he did not want.
I looked at him quietly.
The scarf had been dark grey.
Not black, because Charles already owned too many black things. Not navy, because he disliked navy near his face. Dark grey, because it softened the coldness of his features without making him look gentle.
I had knitted it myself.
It had taken nearly two months.
Charles was particular about everything. The fabric of his shirts. The weight of his coats. The temperature of his coffee. The exact angle of a report placed on his
