The Bright and Breaking Sea (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 1)
The Bright and Breaking Sea: Chapter 15

The Diana moved slowly, her gait off balance, the sea pressing hard at her hull. But they eventually made it to the high cliffs that marked the Saxon Isles’ southern shore.

On the deck, in a cool breeze and pale sky, Kit and Jin made plans. They decided Jin would stay with the ship and oversee the repairs. Kit would accompany the most severely wounded to Grant Hall. Louisa would stay on board until they reached New London, assuming Hetta agreed to the idea of meeting her.

The water soothed as they slipped into the bay, then sailed across it to Queenscliffe. The small village of pale stone and mortar buildings perched above a narrow harbor lined with more stone. The wind faced them now, so they threw a line to a man on the docks and winched their way toward them.

“Make anchor,” she ordered when they’d reached their destination, and then dropped onto the dock with Grant.

A man, short and bowlegged, came toward them. He wore sturdy trousers, a vest over a linen shirt, and a cap with a low bill. His skin was suntanned and windburned, his hair a frizzle of gray that poked in tufts beneath the cap, which he tipped as he approached them.

“Mr. Bailey,” Grant said.

“M’lord.” He and Grant exchanged small bows.

“This is Captain Kit Brightling of the Crown Command,” Grant said.

“Jefferson Bailey at your service, Captain.” He shifted his gaze back to the Diana and winced at the damage. “Looks like you’ve run into a spot of trouble.”

“We did, and we’re on an urgent mission for the Crown. We need as much repair as can be done, and quickly.”

“Of course. M’lord,” he said again to Grant, then walked to the edge of the dock, scratched his stubble as he looked over the ship.

“I’m going to send a message to the house,” Grant said to her, “make the arrangements for the wounded. I’ll meet you back here when I’m done.”

Things were so easily arranged, Kit thought, when one had money and position.

She nodded, watched him stride up the stone steps that led from dock to street and smile at the townspeople who’d gathered, curious at the commotion. Then she walked to where Mr. Bailey crouched, gaze narrowed at the hull, her own footsteps ringing across stone.

“Took some shot, did you?” he asked.

“We did,” Kit said. “Fourteen-pounders.”

Surprise widened the man’s eyes. “Are we at war again?”

“We aren’t supposed to be,” Kit said dourly.

“Aye,” he said. “And you can’t go bumping through the waves with a hole as big as that. Lucky she’s above the waterline. Any damage beneath?”

“Not that’s caused an unusual leak.”

“We’ll see,” he said, his tone growing absent as he reached out, stroked a hand across the hull. “She’s a good ship. Tide goes down, we’ll see more of what ails her.”

“How long do you think the repairs will take?” She braced herself, thinking he’d say several weeks, and fearing she’d have to leave Jin and the Diana here and travel back to New London by land.

“How solid do you want it?”

“Solid enough to return to New London with all hands against a fighting sea.”

“Two days? Maybe three?”

That would have to be good enough. Kit nodded. “And the Crown will see you fairly compensated for your work.”

His nod was absent now, as he was peering again at the hull. Time, Kit thought, to leave him to get started.

A wagon arrived for the wounded, and a horse for the lieutenant who’d send Kit’s message to the queen. The carriage that came for Kit and Grant seemed timeworn, the black paint chipped, the gilt gone dull. Not what she’d have expected of a viscount’s transport, although the horses seemed sturdy enough. Which was the only compliment she was willing to give a horse.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Kit assured Jin. “Although I don’t like to leave the ship.”

“Captain’s prerogative and punishment,” he said with a grin. “You get to sleep in a softer bed. But you have to be mannerly in the meantime.”

Kit’s lip curled. “I know.”

“And you’ll sleep better if you know your people are being cared for. We probably won’t sail back to New London without you. Probably.”

“Insubordination is also unattractive in a commander.”

“Again, agree to disagree,” Jin said, and squeezed her shoulder. “Beware the lady’s maid. She might add fripperies to your coat or ribbons to your hair.”

Kit shuddered, and resigned herself to discomfort.

Kit had seen thousands of miles of the Isles, but mostly from the deck of the Diana. She knew shorelines and harbors and fjords. She didn’t know much about the countries beyond their ports, but she was fairly certain Grant Hall would be considered magnificent even by a seasoned overland traveler.

It was two long stories of stone in shades of ivory and umber, a matching row of narrow windows with white mullions on each story, and a portico with four pairs of columns in front. The roof of dark gray slate rose to a gentle pitch, where more white windows and nearly a dozen chimneys made their home.

“Front of the house was intended to be formal, impressive, imposing,” Grant said.

“I’d say it’s all three. It’s lovely.”

“Thank you,” Grant said, his tone softening. “It’s home.”

Kit sensed Grant meant to give the word its most complex meaning. Not just the seat of his family, the place of his birth, but the place where joys and tragedies and all the things in between had occurred, had soaked into the ground.

The carriage pulled to a stop, and Grant jumped out, offered Kit a hand, which she declined. “I’m fine, thank you.”

They walked toward the portico, and Kit could see the flaws that had been invisible at a distance. The stone on the right side of the house was darker than the rest, as if in need of cleaning, and some of the glass in the windows was broken. She didn’t know much about green things or growing them, but the bit of a garden she could see from the walk appeared to need shaping.

“There’s work yet to be done,” Grant said, and climbed the steps to double doors of paned glass, flanked by windows as tall as the doors, which, Kit guessed, could be opened to let in the breeze. “My father passed during the war, and the estate . . . suffered.”

Much more there, Kit thought, but wasn’t surprised that he didn’t elaborate.

Grant opened the door, walked into the foyer. Kit followed him inside . . . and goggled. If her house was comfortable, Grant Hall was palatial. Cherry panels covered the floor, walls, and coffered ceiling of the foyer. The facing wall bore a long cabinet with carved doors topped with candles and crystal, presided over by four portraits of men with long wigs and dark robes above. Light poured in from the windows along the front wall, so the wood seemed to glow from within.

The sides of the room bore three tall archways. Beyond the archways were atriums with tapestry-covered chairs and crystal and gilt clocks, and winding wooden staircases with carved balusters, the treads covered in thick carpets. More portraits hung on the pillars between the archways; ancestors with white collars and concerned frowns, hands on important books or the arms of velvet-covered chairs.

Her first country manor, she thought with a smile, and an impressive start for that particular list. She’d expected to see fine things in the home of a viscount, but she’d also expected hard formality. A cold and sterile chill in the air.

The house smelled of resin and leather and lemon, and the faint scent of Grant’s cologne. There was a sense of history and warmth, and Kit wondered if this was why Grant had been eager to return—and so angry about having had to leave in the first place.

“Welcome to Grant Hall,” he said, moving to stand in the middle of the room and gazing up at the portraits, their subjects seeming to watch him from their lofty heights.

“Thank you for the invitation.”

There were clicks on the wooden floor, and a white blur raced toward them.

Grant whistled. A small white dog, square and compact, sat and gazed at Grant a few feet away, tail wiggling in apparent delight. For a moment, there was only the dog’s joyous anticipation. Then Grant whistled, and the dog leaped into his open arms and began to make a feast of his face.

“This is Sprout,” Grant said, but was so obviously relieved to see the little dog that she wasn’t sure he’d have heard any answer she bothered to give.

Something had relaxed in his face, a tension relieved. She watched with amusement as he scratched the dog behind its ears until its back leg shook with joy. There was something sweet, if strange, about watching a dangerous man giving love and attention to a very small dog.

A man and woman, probably in their forties, appeared in the doorway. Both had pale skin; both wore servants’ dress. The man was of average height and on the thin side, his hair dark and thick. The woman was shorter, blond hair up beneath a lace cap, her curves tucked into a gray dress with a gauzy fichu.

Grant tucked the dog under his arm. Its tongue lolled happily, clearly content to be in the arms of its master again.

“My lord,” the man said, looking equally as pleased to see Grant at home again, if with much less wiggling.

“Mr. Spivey. Mrs. Spivey,” Grant said. “This is Captain Kit Brightling of the Diana.”

They exchanged polite nods.

“You received my message?” Grant asked.

“We did, sir. The physick is on his way, and we’ve gathered some materials. We’ve just now put them in the schoolroom, and moved in the spare beds. We thought Captain Brightling might enjoy the viscountess’s rooms, given they’re empty.”

“That’s fine,” Grant said, then glanced at Kit. “There’s room and light and . . . facilities in the schoolroom. And I’m sure you’ll be comfortable in the suite.”

Kit doubted that very much. “A cot in the schoolroom with the others would be more than sufficient.”

Mrs. Spivey looked appalled. “Well, that won’t do. You’re a captain. You should have a nice place to sleep.”

Nice, Kit thought, was relative. “There’s no need to go to any trouble.”

“Well, it’s no trouble to use a room that already exists, is it?” Mrs. Spivey’s tone made it very clear she neither expected nor desired a response—or any further argument from Kit. So she nodded, accepting the loss.

“Was it a very fierce battle?” Mr. Spivey’s dark eyes gleamed. A little bloodthirsty, Kit thought, which loosed some of the tension in her shoulders. She understood bloodthirsty.

“Very fierce,” Kit said. “Although, with Lord Grant’s assistance, we were victorious.”

“Well, of course,” Mrs. Spivey said, and smiled beatifically at Grant. “He’s a very brave one, is our colonel.”

“Very brave,” Kit said. “And he has a bandage that needs replacing.”

Mrs. Spivey’s eyes went wide with concern. “Bandage? You’ve been injured, sir?”

“A scratch,” he said, giving Kit a flat look. He hadn’t wanted them to know he’d been hurt. He either didn’t want them to worry, or didn’t want to deal with the hassle.

“Later,” Grant said. “I’ll keep until then.” He looked around the foyer. “Where’s Lucien?”

Mrs. Spivey looked at Mr. Spivey, who appeared markedly uncomfortable. “He’s . . . not in residence, sir,” Mr. Spivey said. “He said he had urgent business in New London.” Mr. Spivey’s tone was cautious, and he shifted his gaze meaningfully at Kit, as if uncertain how frank he could be.

Grant went utterly still, a predator poised on the edge of violence. “He promised me—” Grant cut himself off, turned away, and stalked across the room, anger obvious in the hard set of his shoulders.

“Lucien?” Kit asked quietly.

Grant jolted at the question, as if he’d forgotten she was still in the room. “My brother,” he said. And that was all he said.

The younger brother, Kit surmised. The one Hetta had called a wastrel. “I see.”

“Mrs. Spivey will show you to your room. I have some business to attend to.”

“Of course,” she said. And he moved into the corridor. It was obvious he wanted to be alone, to deal with whatever it meant that his brother was in New London. But there was one thing that had to be said.

Kit followed him, had to move briskly to keep up with his long strides, found him heading toward a closed door, dog still tucked beneath his arm.

“Grant.”

“Brightling,” he said, and sounded defeated. “I’ve neither the interest nor the inclination to discuss the Crown Command at present.”

“Thank you,” was all she said. And she was amused by the suspicion in his eyes.

His brows winged up. “For what?”

“For this. For the wagon and the horse and the care for my men. It’s obvious you’ve other concerns, but you offered your home to them, a solution for the ship. So on behalf of the Crown Command, thank you.”

For a long, quiet moment, he simply looked at her, and she couldn’t begin to name the emotions behind his eyes.

“You’re welcome,” he said finally, then walked into the room and closed the door behind him.

Mrs. Spivey led Kit up one of the staircases to the house’s second story, and then to a wide paneled door of pale blue.

“The suite hasn’t been used since the viscountess passed,” Mrs. Spivey said, pulling out a chatelaine of keys and bobbles, and sliding one into the wide paneled door.

“That would be Colonel Grant’s mother?”

“It would,” Mrs. Spivey said, then opened the door and stood aside so Kit would walk in. “A well-loved woman, was she.”

And a woman with lovely taste, Kit thought, walking into the room.

The sitting room was chalky blue, with a fireplace of blue stone flecked with bits of silver. The paintings in this room were landscapes—windblown cliffs and sunsets—silk and velvet settees and chairs with embroidered cushions. A wall of windows fronted by deep, padded seats threw light across the room. The sitting room led to the bedroom. The same blue paint and fireplace, more beautiful landscapes, and the largest bed Kit had ever seen, a silk canopy rising over it.

“You should replace everything you need,” Mrs. Spivey said. “But if don’t, you’ll likely replace us in the back of the house. The kitchen stays warmer than the rest,” she said with a smile, “and we don’t have the staff—not these days—to keep upstairs maids at the ready. But we do what we can. I’ve not spoken to my lord about it, but he doesn’t usually dine formally at supper. But there will be a sideboard with plates, should you be hungry.”

Kit didn’t have much appetite, and wanted a good night’s sleep more than anything. But she nodded politely. “I’m sure that will be lovely. Thank you very much.”

When she was alone, Kit looked back at the rooms. At the pretty luxury. The viscountess, whomever she might prove to be, would have a glorious set of rooms when settled into Grant Hall. Whom would Grant want? Undoubtedly someone beautiful—he was too handsome, and probably too particular, to settle for anything less. Someone titled, probably with funds, given the repairs that still needed to be made. Someone mannerly and eager to settle into routine.

She walked to the bed, traced fingertips along the silk counterpane, then walked to the window, did the same with the silk and velvet curtains. Rain had begun to fall, spilling raindrops across the glass. Through it, she could see the grounds that stretched beyond—lawn and trees and gardens. And not another house or human in sight.

This would be a very lonely life, she thought. To be a woman alone in these rooms in the cavernous house, which in turn sat alone in the park and far from the village. There would probably be books and embroidery, and the interruptions of tea and luncheon. Perhaps a ball or party now and again during the season. To Kit, it seemed a very small life. A very confined one, despite the sheer amount of space. She couldn’t imagine giving up the sea, the freedom, the camaraderie, the discovery, and exchanging it for this . . . empty beauty, she decided.

But that was neither here nor there. She was a guest, only here for a bit while the Diana was being repaired. And for the first time, it occurred to her that she’d return to New London without Grant. Their mission was complete, and just as she promised Grant his first day on board, their involvement was at an end. Much to her surprise, she wasn’t entirely pleased to realize that. No point in dwelling on it. (Principle of Self-Sufficiency No. 4: Learn from the past; don’t dwell on it.) So she let the curtain fall again, adjusted her coat, and went for the door.

She walked down the corridor, followed the noise of chatting to a room on the right. It was a bright and open room, even on a rainy day, with wood floors and high windows along one side. Chairs and small desks and settees had been pushed against the walls, and four small beds had been placed in a row in the center of the room to make a kind of infirmary.

Phillips, Cordova, and Teasdale were on the beds. Cordova sat up, cradling his arm in its make-do sling, and the others reclined. All were still in uniform.

A barrel-chested man with neatly trimmed white hair and beard, wearing a dark coat and trousers, was directing two women in apron-covered dresses about bandages and cleaning wounds. She walked inside, but the physick straightened his shoulders and stared at her with small, bright blue eyes.

“No,” he said, in a tone that promised he was accustomed to being immediately obeyed.

“Excuse me?” But she stopped.

The man walked toward her, waving her back. “No. We are caring for individuals in precarious health. There will be no interruptions, no visits, until we ensure they are comfortable.”

“I’m their captain,” Kit said, in her most captainly tone.

“We aren’t on a boat.”

Kit couldn’t fault that logic. “When can I see them?”

“At a time which is not now,” he said, and shut the door in her face.

Grant had arranged for her trunk to be taken to the house, and she allowed herself the luxury she couldn’t afford on board—she changed into her nightdress. Beat to quarters might be called in the wee hours of the morning, and she needed to make a swift appearance on deck. Which meant she’d either have to waste time changing into her uniform, or appear on deck in a filmy linen nightdress and wrapper. Which would almost certainly have violated several Crown Command protocols—if the Crown Command had considered the possibility of captains mustered in their wrappers. Even Cox’s Seamanship, which devoted an entire chapter to the boiling of mutton, had nothing to offer. So Kit avoided the problem and slept uncomfortably.

But tonight, there was soft muslin and freedom of movement. And an upsettingly large bed in a voluminous room in a sprawling country manor.

She lay on her back, sheet drawn to her chin, and stared at the ceiling. It was too damned quiet, and it was too damned still. There was always noise on the ship. People or waves or wind or canvas being reefed or unfurled. The din of the watch bells. The shuffle of the watch being changed.

Even Moreham Park had its noises. Merchants coming or going, street sweepers about their work. Rustling trees, barking crows, whining cats. And in her house, a sister staying up entirely too late or waking entirely too early, or Hetta rushing to the palace, or Mrs. Eaves stoking fires or preparing breakfast.

Here, there was only silence. There were several people in the house—Grant, the Spiveys, surely a few more staff—but she couldn’t hear any of them, or anything else other than the occasional sigh of the house settling around her.

Maybe it was different for Grant, who’d been raised in this kind of quiet, in this kind of space. And likely would be different for the woman he ultimately chose.

She tossed for an hour, then rose and went to the window, could see nothing but stars in the darkness that stretched outside. Thinking a walk might do her good, she pulled on her wrapper and slippers, and made her way downstairs. The house was dark but for a glow from a room in the far corner.

She walked toward it, peeked inside, and found Grant, jacket abandoned, stretched in a leather chair. Sprout, the little dog, was curled beside him. Grant’s study, she guessed.

Grant looked up suddenly, eyes wide. “Captain.”

“So sorry,” Kit said. “I couldn’t sleep, and I saw the light . . .” She turned, hardly in a state of dress appropriate for chatting with a bachelor viscount, but heard footsteps behind her.

“Wait,” he said, and she sighed, turned back.

He glanced at her ensemble, raised an eyebrow.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said again. “I hadn’t planned on company.”

“And yet,” Grant said, moving back into the room. “You’re welcome to join me. The fire and whiskey are very agreeable. But I’ll understand if you prefer a chaperone and”—he glanced back at her nightwear—“alternate clothing.”

She was angry that pink colored her cheeks, and glad that it was dark enough that he couldn’t see her face. She was a ship’s captain, for gods’ sake, and didn’t need a damned chaperone. She’d done her time in a forecastle berth where there was little time or space for modesty. She was clothed, wasn’t she? Perhaps not for tea with company, but for warming oneself in front of the fire? Perfectly acceptable.

“I’d appreciate a drink,” she said, chin lifted.

“Very well,” Grant said with a knowing smile, and gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat.”

She walked inside. His study was dark cornered, with leather chairs and sparking fire, a table for gaming, a desk for business, and books lining the walls. Not entirely unlike Hetta’s office, she thought.

“Grant Hall is beautiful, and this room is no exception.”

“Largely beautiful,” Grant said. “Partially decrepit.” He moved to a table that bore a collection of crystal glasses and decanters.

Kit moved to the facing leather chair in front of the stone fireplace, fire roaring, and sank in. A moment later, Grant brought her a small glass of amber liquid.

“Thank you.” Kit accepted the glass and sipped—and was welcomed by warmth and smoke and smoothness. “Well. That’s rather impressive.”

“It’s a family favorite,” Grant said darkly.

“You’ve been working on the house?” Kit asked.

He nodded. “My father had debts—became, I think, careless after our mother died. The house wasn’t maintained the way it ought to have been. I’ve been trying to put the estate back in order, but that work is obviously not complete. I’ve learned any number of new skills along the way. Creditor juggling, masonry repair, the cost of curtains.”

“You were fighting when your father passed?”

“With Sutherland,” Grant said with a nod. “My brother managed the estate while I was gone. Or was intended to do so.”

“That would be Lucien.”

Grant took a sip. “That would be Lucien. He was nineteen when I left. By the time I made it home again, the house was in further disrepair, the notes from creditors still piling up.”

He finished the rest of his whiskey, put the glass on a side table. “He drinks and he gambles, both without success. There are times when his particular demons do not haunt him, and he is a smart and charming fellow then. But the demons seem to inevitably replace him again, and lure him back in. Now they’ve lured him to New London, and I imagine there will be more creditors to contact, more debts to negotiate, more repairs to delay.”

“I’m sorry,” Kit said.

“As am I.”

“You said your mother died?” Kit asked.

“A few years before my father,” Grant said. “She loved growing things. The gardens outside were her design, and primarily her work. It wasn’t fashionable—not for her to work in dirt or dirty her hands. But she didn’t care.”

“She sounds like a very formidable woman.”

“She was. I miss her dearly.”

The words echoed in the space. Even here, the ceilings rose nearly twenty feet high.

“Was it lonely to grow up here?” Kit asked. “The house is so large, and I didn’t see another for several miles.”

“We weren’t lonely as children,” Grant said. “We ran a bit wild across the estate, made a fortress of the orchard, harassed our tutors. But then my mother died, and Gerard took power. I wanted to fight; Lucien didn’t. My father was opposed to it—my being the first son and all—so I went to my uncle to fund the commission. My father and I were angry at each other when I left, and I was on the peninsula when he died. The house feels lonelier now.”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate the work you’ve put in to set it to rights.”

Grant’s expression was hard, his brow furrowed as if he wrangled with memory. “I very much doubt that, Brightling.”

Rain began to fall, knocking hard against the window. Kit thought of her gothic romances, which were usually tales of an emotionally haunted man in a spiritually haunted abode. Grant Hall and its master might qualify.

“A few giant wolfhounds might help liven the hall,” Kit suggested with a smile. “They’re quite common in stories of lonely cliffside estates.”

“Are they?” he asked, obviously amused, and looked down at the dog nestled in his lap. “Sprout doesn’t have a wolfhound’s build, but he does have the confidence of a much larger dog.” He looked up, watched her for a moment. “Do you know much about your family—before Hetta, I mean?”

She hadn’t discussed her family with Grant, but if her surname hadn’t been clue enough, he’d probably have looked into her background before they sailed. Probably interviewed Chandler about her, just as she’d done with Hetta.

“I have no memories of my parents,” Kit said, finishing her own glass and placing it beside Grant’s. “Not my mother’s face, or my father’s laugh. I don’t know if she liked to garden. On the other hand, while I’d not say it’s better to be a foundling, being one does avoid some of the familial complications.”

“Surely you and your sisters have disagreements.”

“Well,” she said with a smile. “There are seven of us.”

“Seven,” Grant said with a chuckle. “So many women in one home. The rows must be terrible.”

Her flat look had him holding up a hand. “Apologies, Brightling. I couldn’t resist.”

The quiet fell again. The fire crackled, as the wind swirled outside, and Kit realized this might be one of the last conversations she’d have with Rian Grant now that their mission was done. And she found that disappointing, as she’d rather gotten used to their sharp repartee.

“I suppose you’ll be returning to New London to replace your brother? I mean, I’ve the sense you weren’t entirely confident he’d return in a timely manner.”

Grant grunted. “That was diplomatically said. And yes. I likely will, if he’s not returned before you sail.”

“You’re welcome to return with us. Although you may prefer a faster method.”

“I’ve not yet decided which I would prefer.”

Something in his tone had her looking back at him. She found his gaze on her, intense and warm. “It’s a fairly easy decision,” she said, gazing back. “To sail or not to sail. I will always choose to sail.”

“Always? You’ve no wish for anything beyond a ship and a star?”

She smiled at the reference to Cox’s Seamanship, and gave Grant silent accolades for it. “I wish for many things. Pistachio nougats, safety for my family, Gerard’s eternal incarceration. If you mean my future, I’ve no desire to give up my captaincy or my ship. And I’ve yet to meet a married woman allowed to keep them.”

“You’ve such a negative view of marriage?”

“I’ve a negative view of the requirements that women play at being helpless to attract a wealthy man, and exchange meaningful activity to become accessories, like a soft rug or a charming vase, once married. Is that what you want, Grant? A viscountess of fine breeding and connections who can support your life of gentlemanly contentment?”

He looked at her for so long she had to force herself to keep from breaking his inscrutable gaze. “I replace my desires are somewhat more . . . variable.”

“But then,” Kit said, “you’re a viscount. You’re allowed to be variable.” She looked back at the fire, let her mind drift back to the present. “Do you really think Gerard is building warships?”

It took a moment for Grant to answer. “I have no reason to doubt Dunwood or the information he obtained—or the arrogance of Gerard or the Guild. I suspect you’d know more about shipbuilding than me,” he said wryly, “but I’m aware it requires space, workers, materials.”

“Wood,” Kit said. “Hemp. Pitch. Iron. All in large supply.”

“The more people,” Grant said, “the more opportunities for gossip, for word to spread. Which is likely how the information came to Dunwood in the first place.” He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “And if Gerard’s handed a new navy, what can be far behind?”

“War,” Kit answered grimly. “More needless death. More needless destruction.” And with that grim thought, she rose. “I should go back to my room. Try to sleep.”

“All right,” Grant said, rising. “Do you know the way?”

“I’m sure I can replace it. Good night,” she said with a nod. “Thank you for the drink, and the conversation.”

“Kit.”

It was the first time he’d said her name, and there was something in the tone—a kind of grim understanding—that had her turning back. “Yes?”

“Whatever comes. Be careful.”

She nodded, retreated into darkness from more talk of war.

In her room, she took the coverlet from the bed, trailed it into the sitting room, and climbed onto the window bench. She pulled the curtain closed around her, and in her small fabric cocoon, tried not to think of the future.