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The threat to Atta hit him square in the jaw as hard as any fist could. He should rip his throat out, right there.

But if he said one more word right now, made one more argument, he’d only make things worse for Atta.

Instead, he turned on his heel and drove away.

Atta

The scents of bacon, black pudding, and coffee roused Atta from sleep. The best night’s sleep she’d ever had, if she were comparing. And then it all came flooding back, in the gut-punch way unique to the liminal place between dreams and wakefulness the morning after a tragedy.

Numbly, she dressed in tweed trousers and a thick, cable-knit turtleneck and tried to recall her way back to the kitchen, letting her nose guide her.

Sonder was at the island, whipping a bowl of something with a whisk. There he stood, heartstoppingly handsome in a white collared shirt, the top two buttons undone, showing the barest hint of his chest. Over it, he wore an open knit jumper, deep grey and ribbed. She couldn’t help but think what it would feel like to snuggle into his chest, for him to wrap those long arms around her and make her feel safe. His stubble had grown out considerably since they’d begun sinking all their time into their work, and the hints of grey were a little more noticeable. He heard her shuffle forward, looked up, and smiled, a curl of hair falling over his forehead. Her heart was horribly, horribly at risk with this man.

“Good morning,a stór.”

Oh, she was in so much trouble.

“Coffee is fresh.” He gestured to a shiny silver pot next to a fancy coffee machine on the far counter. “Bacon and eggs are ready. Black pudding is just about there. I thought I’d try my hand at blueberry muffins, too. You seemed to like the ones from Buttery.”

Atta’s stomach flopped at the mention of him noticing her favourite muffin, just like he’d noted her coffee order. “Sonder, this is too much. I don’t want to put you out.”

He frowned, then poured a cup of coffee for her, sliding it across the butcher block where she took a seat on a stool. “It’s my fault you were in that graveyard at all.”

“Ohhhh, so you’re trying to absolve your guilty conscience,” she teased.

Sonder tried to scowl at her, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to make this right. But, in the meantime, you’ll make yourself at home here. You have all you could dream of as far as tools and research materials go. Imagine what you can do with uninterrupted time, hm?”

“Yourprofessoris showing.” He glowered at her and she hid a smile behind her teacup.

“Funny, funny girl.”

After he artfully filled brown paper cups with muffin batter and slid them into the oven, he plated their food and came around to sit next to her on a stool. “I have lectures today, but I’ve told the House I won’t be in tonight, so I should be home at a reasonable hour.”

Atta listened, chewing a bite of the delicious black pudding and egg, considering how domestic it all felt. Sonder cooking her breakfast, talking about his day and returning home. . . It was nice. So nice that it terrified her a little. She couldn’t get used to this.

As they ate, they chatted about what Sonder had read in the paper before she awoke and got in a mild disagreement about a scientific hypothesis posed by one of the Society members to him the week prior, and then the oven buzzed.

“My muffins!” He popped up off the stool and Atta laughed. He’d let her in so much in the last few weeks and she hoped she was doing the same.

Or did she? They both had so much to lose.

Tossing one of the muffins back and forth in his hands like a hot potato and saying, “Oo– hot– hot–” Sonder finally managed to land one on the counter in front of her.

She was still chuckling when he put his plate in the sink and told her, “The house is yours,stór. Use it as you wish and I’ll see you this evening.”

Atta wandered the halls for over an hour after Sonder left, peeking into the rooms they never managed to get to on her tour.

In the opposite wing from her and Sonder’s rooms, she found a drawing-room she assumed had been his mother’s. It had the same dark, enchanted forest feel of her countenance and the rooms Atta had stayed in that used to be hers.

There was an easel in front of a large bay window that overlooked the Hawthorn Grove. Atta peered out over the trees, their leaves blanketing the ground and their branches bare, the oldest hawthorn standing in the centre looking both menacing and alluring, like Sonder before she knew him. Like Gold Stitch in his mask.

Pulling her attention away from the grounds and back into the house, she looked at the half-finished piece on the easel. At first, it looked like any other woodland, but then she noticed the dark strokes that felt like decay slashing the trees, the plants, the sky.

Flashes of her visions assaulted her in blurred, nauseating swirls. Shaking her head violently, Atta backed out of the room to begin her work for the day.

Sonder

“Atta!” He started calling her name from the moment he closed the front door. “Atta!”