The fire in Amalia’s hearth had burned low, throwing amber light across the carved beams. Shadows curled in the corners of the room, heavy with the scent of pine and smoke. Dorian sat at the edge of the long bench, shoulders hunched, his hands clasped so tight together it looked as if he were holding back the world.
He hadn’t spoken much since they had returned from the cottage—Roland’s cottage—its empty walls echoing louder than any voice. Amalia busied herself with the kettle, though she knew it was little more than pretense. She poured two mugs of tea, though she doubted he’d drink it. Setting one in front of him, she eased onto the seat across the table, the heat of her own mug warming her palms.
“You lived there all those years,” she said softly. It wasn’t a question—she already kn
