Page 144 of Secret Paths

Nothing comes out.

Good.

That is a first.

“My left knee clicks,” I add, because apparently I am determined to be myself even now. “Also, the floor needs mopping.”

Peter blinks. “Mandy.”

“Yes.”

“Is that…”

“Yes.”

His throat moves.

I open the box.

Two rings sit inside.

His is plain silver, broad enough for his hand, with a narrow line cut around the middle. Mine is slimmer, the same silver, the same line, simple.

I saw them in the jeweller’s window in Skipton and thought, with annoying immediate certainty, there you are.

Peter looks at the rings for a long moment.

Then he looks at me.

His eyes are already bright.

I grip the box harder.

“Do not cry before I have finished. It will make me bossy.”

He laughs once, but it breaks halfway through.

I take a breath.

“I bought two because I did not want to ask you to wear a promise I was not wearing too.”

Peter’s face changes.

Softer.

More dangerous to my emotional stability.

“So,” I say quickly, before he can undo me by looking at me, “you will see that this is a very efficient arrangement.”

“Very efficient,” he says, voice rough.

“I like my life,” I say.

His eyes stay on mine.

“I like my house. I like my work, except on days involving rashes with ambitions. I like quiet evenings on my own. I like waking up in my own bed and knowing the whole day belongs to me if I want it to.”

“I know,” he says softly.