Larkin simply nods, his eyes fluttering with unshed tears.
They release. For a heartbeat, the world is balanced on the edge of something enormous. Then Larkin turns, walks down the steps, and does not look back.
The car coughs into life, an animal sound in the bright silence. The engine sputters, then catches. Exhaust curls into the air, torn away by the wind.
Lane and I stand in the doorway, side by side, watching the car creep down the drive. The taillights flare red, then fade to nothing as the road curves away behind the trees.
The cold is biting, but neither of us moves. We watch the horizon for a long time after the car has disappeared, as ifexpecting the house to take it all back, rewind the tape, force us to do it over.
Lane’s hand finds mine, rough and enormous, swallowing it whole. He squeezes, just enough to remind me that I am not alone.
“Some roots go too deep to transplant,” he says, almost to himself. “I thought about leaving. God knows. But—” He glances at me, then at the door, then back at the pale blue wash of sky. “I’m not built for anywhere else. And the truth is, I don’t want to be apart from you.”
I lean against him, letting his heat fight off the cold, a smile spreading wide on my face.
We stand there until the feeling in my feet is gone, until the house creaks behind us. The wind rattles the windows; somewhere, a distant clock marks the hour with a single, mournful chime.
We head inside and Lane closes the door, slow and careful. The latch clicks, the echo rolling through the empty spaces. He lets go of my hand only to wrap his arm around my waist, pulling me into the warmth of him, the two of us tethered by all the things that make up this house.
The silence around us is absolute, but it no longer feels like a wound.
It feels, for the first time, like home.
The kitchen isalive with the rhythm of small ceremonies—the hush of water poured from kettle to pot, the tap-tap-tap of porcelain on counter, the precise crack of eggshell into bowl. Whitby is in her element, her hair drawn so tight the skin at her temples gleams.
If the news of Larkin’s departure has reached her, it doesnot show. Her hands move with the same unyielding grace they always have, each motion exact and necessary.
I hover in the doorway, uncertain whether to interrupt. The air in here is different than the rest of the house—warmer, almost humid, scented with toast and tea and the residue of all the meals she’s ever served to the living and the dead.
Whitby catches my reflection in the pane above the sink. “Miss Vale,” she says, the voice soft but ironed flat. “You’re up early.”
I step into the light, let the chill of the foyer melt from my skin. “Didn’t sleep,” I say, though the truth is that I woke with a start, the dream of an empty house so vivid it made my heart skitter. “You’re making enough for three.”
She pours boiling water over the tea leaves, covers the pot with a crocheted cozy so old it must predate even her tenure. “I assumed Mr. Hughes would be taking breakfast on the road. And, ah, Mr. Sullivan?”
“Lane’s staying,” I say. “He’s not going anywhere.”
Her hands still, just for a second. Then she returns to her work, slicing bread with an efficiency bordering on violence. “Of course,” she says, but there is a note of relief in the arrangement of her shoulders, a softening.
“I’ll bring a tray to the salon and you two can breakfast in there.”
I stand at the end of the butcher block, watching her. “You’re free to leave, you know.”
Whitby doesn’t answer. She slides two slices into the toaster, lines up the plates, spoons a measure of preserves into a shallow glass dish. It is as if the words have landed on her skin but cannot find a way in.
“I’m not trying to force you out. I just wantyou to know. You could go anywhere,” I say. “Do anything you wanted. There’s nothing holding you here.”
She looks up at that, and the force of her attention is like a slap. “You don’t understand, Miss Vale,” she says, the syllables clipped but vibrating with something unnameable. “There is nothing left for me outside these walls.”
“That can’t be true.”
She shakes her head, the tight bun trembling with the effort. “I am too old to begin again. Even if I wished it, which I do not.” Her fingers drum the edge of the table. “This place gives me purpose.”
The toast pops, the sound ricocheting around the room. Whitby butters it, each motion deliberate. She moves the plates to the sideboard, then wipes the counter with a rag, though there is nothing left to clean.
“I don’t want to be the reason you feel trapped,” I say, the words catching in my throat.
Whitby’s lips twist, almost a smile. “No one can trap me, not anymore. I can feel the difference. I am here by choice, for as long as you need me. When you do not, I will be gone.” She pours the tea, the flow steady and unbroken. “This house needs its keepers.”
