Anne swallowed slightly. “And sometimes,” she continued, her voice softer, “he looks at me in a way that makes me forget entirely why I was once so certain I would never allow myself to love anyone again.”
The honesty settled heavily between them. Anne had not meant to say it aloud, had not even meant to think it so clearly.
Eleanor’s expression immediately lost all traces of teasing. “Oh, Anne.”
Anne looked away. “That sounds dreadful when said aloud.”
“It sounds frightening,” Eleanor corrected gently.
Anne laughed under her breath, though there was little humor in it. “Do you know what the worst part is? I think he is becoming difficult to leave behind.”
Eleanor studied her carefully. “Do you think he feels any of this?”
Anne hesitated. Then, despite herself, she remembered the gardens—Dorian’s hand catching her wrist, the way he had looked at her when he thought she was jealous.
“I do not know,” she mumbled. “Sometimes I think perhaps he might.”
“And other times?”
She gave a small, helpless shake of her head. “Other times I remember exactly who he was before me.”
Eleanor was quiet for a long moment.
“You know,” she said, “men rarely look toward home every five minutes unless there is someone waiting there they would rather be with.”
Anne frowned slightly. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Eleanor replied, sounding entirely too pleased with herself, “I suspect your husband may be suffering from the same problem.”
“Yes, the problem being that this was supposed to be a practical match, not a loving one.”
Eleanor’s smile softened slightly, though the knowing look never fully disappeared. “You realize,” she said carefully, “this conversation stopped sounding practical quite some time ago.”
Anne let out a quiet breath. “I know.”
They resumed walking slowly, neither speaking for several moments. The gardens had grown quieter around them,the faint rustle of leaves overhead filling the spaces where conversation paused.
Eleanor glanced sideways at her, eventually. “So then,” she asked gently, “what exactly is stopping you?”
Anne did not answer immediately because the answer sat too close to something she rarely allowed herself to touch directly. Finally, she looked down at the path beneath them.
“My father,” she replied quietly. “I still think about how quickly everything changed. One moment, he was there; the next… my dream life vanished.”
Eleanor stayed silent.
Anne had always appreciated that about her. She knew when to interrupt and when to simply let the truth arrive on its own.
“I trusted that things would stay,” Anne continued after a moment. “I trusted that happiness lasted and that people who loved you remained. I thought… I thought there would always be more time. And then he was gone.”
Eleanor reached for her arm again, gentle this time. “Anne…”
Anne shook her head faintly. “I cannot do that again. I cannot allow myself to become fully vulnerable.”
“To Dorian?”
Anne hesitated. “To feeling such a profound loss again. If you love someone, you hand them the power to destroy you when they leave.”
Eleanor’s expression softened further.
