The winter frost had settled over Hampstead like a heavy blanket, muffling the sounds of the city beyond the garden walls. It was January, three months since the handover. The house felt different now. It was quieter, not because there were fewer people, but because the urgency had drained out of the rooms. The foundation belonged to Eleanor. The business belonged to the board. The study was empty.
I stood at the kitchen window, watching the steam rise from my tea. The glass was cold against my forehead. In the garden, Marcus was walking toward the wall. He moved slowly, the oak cane tapping a rhythmic code on the frozen path. Tap. Drag. Tap. Drag. He was wearing his thick wool coat, the collar turned up against the wind. He looked small against the backdrop of the bare oak trees.
I set
