She swallowed and turned to him. “It’s…it’s about a tiger.”
“Yes?”
Her eyes found his. “You tell me I’m a tiger sometimes.”
“Well.” He put his hands in his pockets, the better not to touch her with them. “Yes. I do.”
Her eyes were so wide, so bright with hope. “Are these about me? The tiger cub, lost from home so young? Searching for years as she grows, going from place to place?”
“Never giving up?” he added. “Looking forward, always forward?”
She made a little sound in her throat.
“Really,” he said, “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. It’s about all of us. Mr. Alabi left his home at twelve, when war came to his home city. Mrs. Song came to Britain in search of a child who had been impressed in the pig trade.”
She looked away. “Oh.”
“As for me,” Adrian said, “my family left me in England during the rebellion. We were reunited afterward, but I lost three of my brothers. That’s why at the end, some tigers are missing.”
She turned to him. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. And here I’ve been complaining to you. I should never have done it.”
He looked away. “I don’t talk much about it. I’m the lucky one. I didn’t die. I didn’t even have to go to war. There are untold millions who will never have what I have. There’s no point asking for sympathy for me when so many have less.”
“Adrian. You don’t need to ask for sympathy. You deserve it.”
God. If he looked down on her now, he would take every inch of comfort she was offering—the liquid warmth of her eyes. She almost reached for him, then pulled back.
“In any event, the plates.” He cleared his throat. “I just help my lead artists put things together. All the feelings you saw in there—they weren’t all mine. The tiger’s journey wasn’t entirely about you. It was about all of us. But…”
Her breath caught on that word, entirely, betraying as it was. She looked up at him.
“But.” His voice was low. “It was partially about you.”
Because I think you could belong. He didn’t say it, though. They were going to Lackwich tomorrow, and—and—
And the sound of a door opening echoed down the corridor. Camilla jumped away from him, blushing, and Adrian exhaled.
“I thought,” Adrian said in the moments before whoever it was arrived, “that even if you moved on, after…this, that…this way you might stay here a little, too?”
Even if. There—he’d said it, put the possibility out in the world. Her eyes widened.
Behind them, the door to the studio opened. Mr. Alabi strode in.
“Ah,” he said. “Miss Winters! What do you think of my plates?”
Camilla straightened, smiling at Mr. Alabi as if, a moment ago, she hadn’t looked as if Adrian had handed her the stars.
“Your plates?” She shook her head. “And here I thought they were everyone’s plates.”
“But I am a part of everyone.”
“I hate your plates,” Camilla said.
Alabi’s face fell.
“They almost made me cry, they were so perfect.” She gestured to him. “Here. I’ll tell you what I thought. Let’s start from the beginning.”
* * *
By the time Adrian returned that night, he had made all the arrangements to start final production in earnest.
Their train left early the next morning; he had already tasked Mr. Singh to pick them up at the break of dawn. A valise sat by the door—Camilla’s. It did not escape his notice that she had, once again, packed everything she owned into her one piece of luggage. She’d leave nothing behind.
She wasn’t wrong to do so; if she simply walked into Rector Miles’s house and walked off with a record book, showing everything that had been done, then they’d go off to his uncle, present him with the evidence, have their annulment, and…what?
Never see each other again.
God.
This might be the last evening they had together. He made his way into the parlor.
Camilla sat on the edge of her chair, biting her lip. She had a ball of yarn in her hands; she was crocheting…something? He didn’t know what that misshapen lump could be. They greeted each other; they always did. She asked about his day; he inquired as to hers. Then silence fell.
It was a silence stalked by the memory of tigers and plates.
After ten minutes of glancing her way, he gave up on pretending.
“Nervous?” he asked.
“I keep thinking,” she said. “I’m thinking of what to say when I arrive at the rectory. There’s part of me that says that they lied first, and so I shouldn’t let myself be bothered by it. But I am.”
“They did lie,” he said, with as much authority as he—someone who had once spent a few months acting as page for a bishop—could provide. “You shouldn’t feel badly at all.”
She bit her lip again. “What if they don’t believe me?”
“Don’t worry. I’m sending a telegram before hand, remember, purporting to be from Bishop Lassiter. Miles will be out of the house to respond; nobody there will know the truth in his absence. They’ll respond positively if you sound certain. It’s human nature.”
She nodded slowly.
“Go through it, then,” he said gently. “Tell me what you are going to do. The more you think it through, the more real it will be, the easier it will be to execute in the moment. Let’s practice now.”
She nodded, this time less slowly. “I will come in shortly after he has left.”
“Not looking like that,” he said, smiling at her. “If you come in looking like that, all nervous, they’ll doubt you. Look at them the way you looked at Alabi this morning. When you were sassing him.”
She shut her eyes and looked away. One inhalation, then another, and she stood. When she opened her eyes, there was a light smile on her face and a sparkle in her eyes.
He felt a knot form in his chest. God, she was lovely. “Like that.” His throat felt dry as he spoke. “Do it just like that. What will you say to them?”
She spun around, her skirt flaring briefly around her ankles, before smiling at him. “I’ve just realized.” Her smile broadened. “I’m definitely going to tell them the truth. Two lies don’t right a wrong, now, do they? And the more truth I tell, the stronger I will feel.”
He didn’t want to contradict her, not when her confidence seemed so shaky. But he had to say it. “I’m not precisely sure the truth will be effective.”
Camilla just licked her lips and took a step toward him. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Albert,” she said, and her voice had an almost amused quality to it. “You didn’t actually believe all that, did you? That was a stage drama.”
He swallowed.
She sashayed toward Adrian, one step at a time. “The whole thing was a ruse. Half-Price Camilla? The rector simply didn’t want anyone to take me seriously.”
“Well.” He tried to get into his role as—who was Albert again? It didn’t help that he knew almost nothing of the man, save a vague memory of brown hair. “Why would he do that?”
“Did you not notice that he c
alled me into his office to consult, occasionally, on serious matters? I’ve been in communication with other members of the church, of course.”
She came next to Adrian and sat on the arm of his chair. She seemed so absolutely in control, so utterly right and perfect in the role. Adrian could hardly bring himself to breathe.
“Don’t tell me you actually believed any of that. I thought you smarter than that.” She reached out and set a finger on the top button of his coat.
“Camilla.” His voice came out hoarse.
“He wanted the bishop to think me discredited so I could go assist with some other matters. But here I am.” She tilted her head in an inch, so close that he could almost taste her. “I’ve returned. Did you miss me?”
And in that moment, he did. It made no rational sense; he’d talked to her every day for weeks; he could not possibly miss her. But he felt the distance between them, that bare inch, so keenly that he almost vibrated with it.
“Cam…” Her name came out almost a groan. She swayed toward him, not quite completing what he wanted, and he reached out. Maybe it was to steady her in place. Maybe it was just to touch her. His hand found her waist.
She exhaled, and he could feel her breath—on his lips, in his heart.
“One of my favorite duties,” she whispered, “used to be starting the morning fires. Our room was cold, coal being too dear to waste on servants who would warm themselves in labor. So I’d dress in the morning, my hands too numb to do my buttons, and rush downstairs. There was pride to be had in adding kindling, bit by bit. Blowing on the banked coals. Encouraging them to catch flame in a blast of heat.”
He could almost taste her words. He could feel the picture she painted, that warmth of the fire.
His hand was on her waist. She leaned in a little more, so her forehead touched his.
“I always dawdled as much as I could about the job, letting my hands grow warm. I’d find some excuse—I needed to make sure the fire caught everywhere, so that it burned evenly. I wouldn’t leave, even if I threatened to bake through.”
“Cam.” He felt almost hoarse.
“I have always been susceptible to flame,” she told him.