He reached into his coat.
And, very gently, laid on the table before her a little paper-wrapped bouquet of daisies.
And while her own eyes were awash in tears, she heard his footsteps across the foyer and the door shutting behind him on its well-oiled hinges.
She couldn’t move for what felt like a full minute. What need of words does the sun have?
She gathered the daisies to her and buried her face in them. They received a veritable shower of tears. And then she sniffed and tossed her head and rubbed her eyes, because she wanted to read that poem.
And with shaking hands she unfolded the sheet of foolscap and read, in writing tall and bold as ships’ spires, as tall as a man who could easily reach the sconces:
Your eyes
your lips
Your heart
my heart
I am undone
“Oh.” The sound escaped her. Pure wonder and pain.
Shewas, suffice it to say, undone. The foolscap rattled in her fingers and she laid it gently down lest her tears blur the words.
She gave a start when Dot tiptoed in and plucked up the daisies to put in a vase filled with water.
She didn’t spill a drop.
Then Delilah looked up and discovered she was surrounded. Everyone had heard him leave and had crept in.
“Helovesyou, Lady Derring,” Dot breathed.
“He’s a good eater,” Helga said.
“I miss him,” Delacorte said. “He’s funny.”
“He can reach all the sconces and open the door at night if you go and get him,” said Angelique, not succumbing to romanticism.
Apart from her damp eyes.
Delilah rose. “Dot... come upstairs with me. I will need my pelisse. And I need your help with something else I want to do first.”
Ten minutes later Delilah was out the door.
Running. Alone.
And so buoyant she didn’t even care that someone had written “The Palace of Rogues” in the dust on the window.
TheZephyrwas the first thing of true substance and weight Tristan had owned, and any man would be proud. It would be his home from now on, that, and the sea. Though now he knew it wasn’t, of course,Home, with a capitalH.ThatHome, he understood now, looked like worn settees and soft carpets and a flower in a vase on a desk; sounded like creaks and groans in the night, and the thundering of little cat feet in hallways; tasted like Helga’s cooking and Delilah’s lips; felt like Delilah’s silken hair and arms.
He had said what needed to be said; it was now up to her. He wasn’t certain whether what he felt was hope, but some terrible burden had lifted from his heart. He knew now, that no matter what she did or decided, she would be well.
He was preparing to row out when something, suddenly, made him turn.
His heart stopped.
Delilah stood on the edge of the dock, the wind lashing her skirts and hair about.