Thorne.
I cut across the shadowed lawn toward the back garden, footsteps quick and quiet on the damp grass.
The air had cooled, carrying the faint scent of roses and freshly turned earth from the new construction.
Every nerve in me pulled forward—Mia was there. I knew it the way I knew my own pulse. She’d wait, stubborn and aching, just like I’d told her to.
I should’ve been more careful. Should’ve lingered in the hall until Mary returned to the sisters’ quarters, until the last car crunched down the gravel drive and the grounds were empty.
But patience had burned out of me the second Mrs. Voss left.
Need overrode sense. One more minute without touching Mia felt unbearable.
“Why are you walking that way, padre?”
Mary’s voice floated from behind me—soft, curious, too close.
I
