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The word hung in the air.

He tried again. “You know I love you.”

“Love isn’t an excuse.” She didn’t blink.

He sagged. “Jesus God.” It was a supplication rather than a curse. He released a long breath. “I’m not a saint. But I’m not a bloody ogre. I try my best. What more can I do?”

“Don’t ask me.” She gave a small shrug. “Ask yourself.”

His fist collapsed into loose fingers, each bent tip distinct against the dark upholstery.

“Fair enough,” he grated. “I will.”

Silence yawned between them, sudden and profound. On the periphery, she heard, again, the tick of the clock.

Her arms felt slack. Charlemagne twisted and went limp, slipping under her elbows, hopelessly floppy. She bobbled, trying to keep her hold. No good. She bent her knees so he could roll down the ramp of her skirt, and she heard Jack laugh.

“As though he were cooked in a soup.”

She met his gaze. His eyes were damp, his smile uncertain. His face—it was more familiar to her than her own.

“A noodle with fur,” she agreed, sighing, and wedged herself beside him on the sofa.

At last, Jack spoke, so softly she had to strain to hear him. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

She nodded, eyes on the fireplace. Charlemagne had joined Billie, the two of them flanking Fritz’s bed.

“Without you,” he said, and the hint of a question in his voice meant she had to nod again.

She could tell he was studying her. Tears pricked her eyes. She bit her quivering lip.

“Chin up,” he murmured. “You’ll be all right.” No question in his voice now. “More than all right.”

She curled her legs under her, leaned into the arm of the sofa, rested her head. She wasn’t so sure. His hand was a warm weight on her shoulder. Neither of them moved. As soon as they did, it would start, their new apartness. She concentrated on her breath, let her lids drift down. When she opened her eyes again, she had to blink against the morning light. She was still there on the sofa, and Jack was gone.

—

Later that day, after she’d shaken out the rugs and swept up the straw and the cat fur, she walked to the bakery and lingered outside by the window. The bell was tinkling as customers came and went. She watched Mr. Craddock moving about behind the counter, wrapping orders in paper. After some time, she walked on, no longer taking in her surroundings. She felt disoriented, here, in Hensthorpe.

Nothing seemed right.

Back at the cottage, she found her aunts in the kitchen. Aunt Sylvia was hovering over a huge pot of milk on the stove. Miss Lolly stood at the table, squeezing the liquid from boiled nettles into a vat.

Nauseated, Nina sat on a stool. The sour-sweet odors of cheesemaking didn’t usually repulse her. Her throat worked as she swallowed, and swallowed again. The door to the garden stood open. She could see the very spot where she and Alan had exchanged their final words. The desire to see him struck with such force it dislodged every buried emotion.

“Squeeze,” directed Miss Lolly, pointing to the vat of nettles on the table.

Nina burst into tears.

“My heart alive!” Aunt Sylvia dropped the spoon and went to her. “Is it Jack? He won’t be gone forever.”

“Tears aren’t for Jack, I reckon.” Miss Lolly murmured it as Aunt Sylvia pressed Nina’s head to her sternum.

That made Nina cry harder, until she managed to choke off her sobs and straighten.

“It’s the bakery.” She scrubbed at her wet cheeks, gulping for air. “I’m going to buy it.”

Now Miss Lolly hugged her. “But this calls for celebration!” She pulled a pair of stained gloves from her apron pocket and brandished them. “Just as soon as we squeeze these nettles.”