I don’t follow him back inside. I stand with the fountain murmuring at my back until the cool air has washed the heat out of my skin and my hands have stopped shaking. When I finally move, it’s slow—one careful step, then another—like I’m learning the shape of my body again.
The door to the corridor opens to the familiar hush, the same lamp glow and polished floor and portraits watching from their frames. I walk the long way to our wing, counting panels and turns the way I’ve taught myself to do when thinking hurts. Left at the narrow window slit where the stone is cooler. Straight past the table with the vase that changes flowers every day. Right at the hairline crack in the baseboard that no one else notices.
By the time I slip into our rooms, my chest has steadied.
Bella is on the ru
