“Don’t be,” he said. “It is a finished subject, mostly.”
“Mostly,” she repeated.
He looked at her then, and the room adjusted. “I had help,” he said. “That is why the subject is not a complete ruin.”
“What kind of help?” she asked, careful.
“The kind that calls you a fool when you are,” he said. “And makes sure you eat. And walks into a room before you so you can borrow a minute of her courage.”
She stilled. “You saidher.”
He paused—not a long pause, not dramatic, just a quick check that his mouth and his sense were still allies. “Yes.”
“You have a sister,” she said, not a question now so much as a thought meeting certainty.
He looked down at his cards. “I do.”
She waited—and discovered that, in this, waiting was the precise kindness. “What is her name?” she asked, after a breath that felt like permission rather than pressure.
His jaw tightened. “Not tonight,” he said, voice even.
She did not push. “All right.”
“I cannot talk about it more,” he said, and this time the evenness cost him.
“All right,” she said again.
He put the cards down carefully, squared their edges, placed them in the lacquered box, and closed the lid with more care than such a small sound required. He sat back, hands empty now and therefore more honest.
“You will think me weak,” he said, and there was a half-laugh in it with worse things holding its coat.
“I will think you human,” she said simply. “And polite for telling me where the wall is.”
He tipped his head as if accepting a judgment from a court he respected. “Thank you.”
“You’re allowed to have a locked room,” she said. “I only ask that you don’t leave me at the far end of the hall while you stand guard over it.”
He looked at her for a long, steady count—one, two, three—then nodded once. “I can manage that.”
She exhaled softly, feeling the hour settle around them the way rooms do when people decide to stay.
“Another hand?” she asked, lighter again, offering the deck like a treaty renewed.
He shook his head. “We should both sleep. Mrs. Walsh will conduct raids if she thinks we’re plotting against the morning.”
“She suspects we plot constantly,” Maria said, rising.
“She is correct,” he said, also standing. “She merely misidentifies the target.”
She returned the deck to its box and fitted the lid. He walked her to the door as if there were a rule about it and as if, tonight, he intended to follow at least that rule.
“Thank you for the game,” he said.
“Thank you for losing with dignity,” she said, straight-faced.
“I did not…”
“Good night, Stephen.”