Chapter 23: The Terms Torn Up

My father gave us the attic, a candle, and a speech about the structural soundness of the roof.

"It has stood two hundred years," he said. "It has never once been tested by a Grand Duke."

"Papa. Go to bed."

"I'm only saying the floor is thin."

"Go."

He went. We heard him on every stair.

The attic was my old room, under the beams, with a narrow bed and a trunk.

It was the trunk where I had found the glove.

Ansel stood in the middle of the floor with his head an inch from the rafters, which made him look larger than the room.

"I have never been in a bed this size," he said.

"It's a good bed."

"It is for one person."

"We'll manage," I said. "We have a precedent. A coat down the middle."

"I would sooner not have a coat."

"No," I said. "I'd sooner not either."

He crossed the boards.

It took one step.

He lifted my bandaged hand and kissed the inside of my wrist where the wrapping ended.

Then he put his forehead against mine, as he had in the blue room, and for a moment neither of us did anything.

"Before this," I said, "I want to do something in writing."

"Mina."

"One item. I invoice you, once, for everything."

"Go on."

"One husband, who is a fool and a very bad negotiator. Received in full."

He laughed. He picked me up with his hands under my arms, and the beam above us clipped his head.

"That's a three-gold touch," I said, as he swore.

"The fee is waived."

"Then I'm taking it in kind."

I undid his shirt buttons myself this time, with my left hand.

He was patient about it. He did not help once. He stood very still while I worked, and watched my fingers with an attention I could feel on my skin.

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