They drifted into sleep, still twined together. The world beyond the room was held at bay by the simple, impossible act of wanting.
Rose thought, as she faded, that this was what it meant to be home.
In the morning, there would be breakfast, and Lizzie, and the million tiny rituals that made up a life.
But for now, there was only this: two bodies, two hearts, and the hope—fragile, bright, and real—that they could make something new.
CHAPTER 17
The next morning, Felix awoke early out of habit and found himself wandering the halls of Carden House in search of coffee. Instead, he found Rose and Lizzie already in the morning room, a pale golden chamber with light pouring in, making them both look like a painting.
Rose was feeding Lizzie in a manner Felix had never seen before: with patience, laughter, and a steady stream of commentary on the merits of each bite.
The baby, perched upright in a highchair, greeted every spoonful with a shriek and a flail. Her cheeks were already painted in what looked like strawberry preserves.
“She likes the jam,” Rose explained, as Felix entered. “She does not like the eggs, bread, or porridge.”
“She has taste,” Felix said, pulling a chair to Rose’s left. He reached for the pot of coffee and poured a cup. “May I try?”
Rose surrendered the spoon, though not without a warning: “She bites.”
“I bite harder,” he replied, and dipped the spoon into the preserves, presenting it to Lizzie with a flourish. “Your Grace, a delicacy from the far-off colonies.”
Lizzie grabbed the spoon from him, then launched it at his chest with remarkable force. The jam splattered his shirtfront, landing with a wet splat.
For a moment, neither he nor Rose moved. Then Felix, grinning, plucked the spoon from his lap and tried again. This time, Lizzie accepted the bite with a grin so broad her gums showed, pink and obscene.
Rose laughed, and Felix felt a strange pride, as if he’d won a prize at the fair.
“She is impossible,” Rose said, shaking her head.
“So are you,” he replied.
They fed the child together, taking turns. Felix discovered he preferred the chaos of it: the sticky fingers, the jam stains, the way Rose leaned in to wipe Lizzie’s chin and ended up with a streak of pink on her own nose. He liked the way Rose smiled at him; her expression softened by the sunlight.
When the meal was over, Rose wiped Lizzie clean and settled her in Felix’s lap. The baby rooted for his pocket watch, found it, and promptly tried to eat it.
“She knows it’s valuable,” Felix said, watching the infant gnaw the chain. “She will be an excellent thief someday.”
“She will be a poet,” Rose corrected. “She has the soul for it.”
Felix looked at the two of them—the bright, golden light, the riot of jam and laughter and clean linen. He had not known it could be like this.
He held Lizzie with one arm and reached for Rose’s hand with the other, their fingers intertwining across the wreckage of the breakfast table.
At that moment, he knew he would love them forever.
Rose, as it turned out, had a plan for the day.
She declared it over breakfast, with all the certainty of a general marshaling troops.
“There is a new aviary at St. James’s.” She spoke as if Felix had been waiting his whole life for this particular intelligence. “They’ve imported birds from as far as Brazil. I want to take Lizzie to see them.”
“She is not yet a year old, Rose. She may be unimpressed by their diplomatic credentials.”
“Nonsense,” Rose replied, expertly scooping Lizzie up before Felix could finish his coffee. “She is already more intelligent than most of Parliament.”
He let the remark stand.
