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“Under a day, or a little more, if the roads and the weather allow.” Gabriel rose and went to a sideboard where a county map lay half unrolled. “Take the Scott coach. There and back in two or three days, if the sky holds.”

Angelo came to the map and ran a finger from Tintagel to Truro. He followed the ink roads and noticed a smudge where someone’s thumb had rested. A day out and a day home would give him time enough to find the thing, if the thing could be found. If he did not find it in Truro, he might still come away with a name, or word of an estate, or a glasshouse where a collector hoarded what he wanted. He had seen such houses in Italy. Men who would not sell a bloom for gold and would trade it for another bloom. He needed that kind of hunger. His own would have to match it.

“Thank you.” He turned to them both. “For the roof and for this. I will go as soon as the coach can be put to.”

“Go?” Henri’s voice sharpened. “Today?”

“Waiting serves nothing.” He tried a smile. It died on the mouth. “The sooner I leave, the sooner I come back with what I seek.”

Another of those married looks passed between them, a whole talk finished in a blink. Envy hit him so sharp it took the next breath. That was what he wanted. He wanted their kind of knowing, and their pairing, and that sure tie to one other soul.

He had thought he might have it with Isolde. He prayed he had not missed his mark.

“Very well,” Gabriel said. “I will send to the yard. Is there anything else?”

“Only my trunk.” Angelo went to the door and looked back. “Thank you. Both. I … I hope to return soon, and with better news.”

Or with nothing, he thought as he left. But I will have tried.

He stopped to tell Nicholas he meant to take the family coach. Nicholas was in a chair with a book he was not reading. He heard the plan, lifted one brow, and shrugged as if the matter were weather. “Try not to lose the horses,” he said. “I am fond of two of them.” It was as near a godspeed as the man would give. Angelo took it and went.

The yard was cold under a gray sky. Puddles from last night’s rain held a thin skin of light. He smelled salt on the wind and heard gulls far off, arguing over the cliff. A stable boy led a cob past and stared, then remembered his manners. The coachman, Trevithick, an older man of few words, was brushing a horse. Steam rose off the animal’s back. Leather creaked. It was ordinary work, and Angelo felt like a guest in it.

“Truro, ye say?” He scratched his chin and squinted at the cloud. “A fair stretch, sir. I don’t know those roads as I know these, but I’d call it a day out and a day home, if the weather holds.”

“Can we go now?” Angelo asked. “I have only to fetch a trunk and a few things.”

Trevithick shrugged. “If ye be ready, we can be off. Horses are fresh. I’ve no other call.”

“Good. Bene.” Angelo turned for the house, his mind already in Truro. He thought of botanists and collectors, and of the rare bloom that might, if luck held, prove he meant what he said. “I will not be long.”

He went in by the kitchen and took the back stair, fast through passages that had lived in his head for days. Cook looked up from a board and he gave her a nod he did not feel. Every grate mocked him with quiet. Every dark corner whispered of a presence that had gone as if it had never been. He passed the library door and did not look in. Lorenzo would have questions. He had no answers that would not give Isolde away.

Wait, he thought, throwing his door wide and gathering what he needed. I am not done. There will be a road back to her. A way to show that I see the whole woman, and that the whole is more than enough.

He could only ask that the hour of his return still held her.

* * *

Isolde had been in the walls when she heard him ask for botanists.

She had not meant to listen. Or she had. She would not pick at that. Since the garden she had kept away, licking the wound in the tower while he walked the house and called her name. She had heard him. She had felt the raw in it through the iron. She had put her palm on cold stone and wept until her eyes stung.

She had not answered. Pride held her back, maybe, or fear, or the old surety that running had been right. That the talk of cream had shown his true mind, whatever his mouth had done in the moon. The tower had smelled of cold ash and wet pillow. She had worn that smell like a second gown.

Now, crouched in the slim way beside the study with lime grit in her palm, she heard him speak of going. A mouse ticked in the lath and she nearly cried out at it.

Truro. A day out. A day home. He is leaving.

The words hit like a dunk in the winter sea. The air went from her lungs and her heart dropped. He was going. After a day of hunting her, of putting her name into iron, he was packing a coach. What if he did not come back? What if, once the hall was behind him, he saw she was not worth the trouble, with a whole world waiting past the gates?

No.

The refusal rose hard.

No. No.

She pressed to the grate and strained. He was already at the door, thanking them. His voice sounded wrong to her. It was tired and flat. The lift that had first pulled her to him had been stripped off. He sounded beaten.