Chapter 9: The Night Before

Ambrose's POV

June left for her night shift at ten, and at the door she gave me a look that said she would hurt me if I made a mistake.

Then she was gone, and I stood in my wife's grandmother's kitchen with the stove ticking.

Linnea had gone up to bed an hour earlier.

I was meant to sleep at the inn.

I had been standing at the bottom of the stairs for forty minutes.

The bond tugged at me, and I stopped fighting it.

I went up.

She was awake in the little room under the eaves, lying on her side with the quilt pulled to her chin.

The window had been left open a hand's width, and the lake air moved the curtain.

"You're not at the inn," she said.

"No."

"I said nine days."

"Eight," I said.

She looked at me for a long moment.

Then she lifted the corner of the quilt.

I didn't move.

"I was going to say something clever," Linnea said, "and I can't think of anything. Come here."

I took off my coat and my shoes and lay down beside her in my shirt.

She turned and fitted herself against me, her back to my chest, and I put my face in her hair.

It smelled of woodsmoke and chamomile and her.

I had told myself that was all I would do.

"For about four minutes yesterday," she said into the dark, "I believed you'd signed it."

I closed my eyes.

"I know."

"That's why I couldn't call. It wasn't only the babies."

"I know," I said again. "I've had a day to get used to it. I'd rather you'd called."

"I should have."

"You should have. And I should have been home."

She turned over to face me.

Her eyes shone in the dark, wet.

I wiped the tears from her cheekbone with my thumb, and she caught my wrist and held it there.

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