Page 154 of Shadow Waltz
The pause that followed was heavy with understanding, because Mason had been coordinating the search for Cass and would immediately grasp the implications of my request. “Will you be informing Mr. Carter about the Edinburgh situation during your horticultural consultation?”
“I will,” I confirmed, though the prospect of delivering news that would simultaneously fulfill Ash's greatest hope and worst fear made my chest tighten with something that felt suspiciously like anxiety. “And Mason? Excellent work on the search coordination. Your efforts made this possible.”
I found Ash in the walled garden behind our townhouse, kneeling beside a rose bed that didn't require pruning but provided convenient excuse for private conversation. London had been good to him—the constant overcast skies suited his pale complexion, and the anonymity of a city where no one looked twice at expensive jewelry had allowed him to wear his collar openly without attracting unwanted attention.
“The roses are looking well,” I observed, settling beside him on the stone bench that overlooked our carefully cultivated sanctuary. “Though I suspect they're not why you requested my horticultural expertise.”
Ash's smile was sharp and beautiful and completely transparent. “Adrian called. He wanted to discuss the quarterly reports from the security consulting division, but there was something in his voice that suggested the conversation was really about you.”
I felt my pulse quicken with the recognition that Adrian's calls were rarely social, that his interest in our business operations usually preceded offers of work that tested the boundaries of our commitment to legitimate enterprises. “What kind of something?”
“The kind that suggests he's planning to offer you more significant involvement in his organization. The kind that would require us to decide how retired we really want to be from the life that brought us together.”
The observation carried weight beyond simple business discussion, because it forced us to confront questions we'd been avoiding since settling into domestic tranquility. Was our move to London genuine retirement from criminal activities, or just a different stage in careers that would always be defined by violence and moral complexity?
“Would that bother you?” I asked, genuinely curious about his thoughts on potential future directions. “If Adrian offered me a position that involved more than just advisory services?”
Ash was quiet for a moment, processing implications with the same analytical intensity he brought to everything else. “It would depend on what kind of position, what level of involvement, whether it would require returning to the kind of systematic violence we've been trying to move away from.”
“And if it did require that kind of involvement?”
“Then we'd have to decide whether the life we've built here is worth more than the excitement of the life we left behind,” Ash replied, his hand finding mine with the kind of unconscious gesture that spoke to absolute trust. “Whether domestic happiness is sufficient, or whether we need danger to feel fully alive.”
The question cut to the heart of everything we'd been dancing around for months, because peaceful retirement in London was exactly what we'd claimed to want, but both of us had been restless in ways that suggested we might be too young and too accustomed to adrenaline to embrace purely conventional existence.
“There's something else,” I said, producing the investigator's report and watching Ash's expression shift as he recognized the significance of what I was holding. “About Cass.”
I watched his face cycle through hope and fear and desperate anticipation as I outlined what the investigators had discovered—that Cass was alive but terminally ill, receiving care in a facility that specialized in trafficking survivors, likely to have weeks rather than months remaining.
“They found them,” Ash whispered, the words carrying eighteen months of desperate hope finally being fulfilled. “After all this time, all the searching, they actually found them.”
“They're dying,” I said gently, because hope without context would only make the eventual revelation more devastating. “The medical reports suggest advanced complications from trafficking trauma. But they're conscious, coherent, and according to the facility staff, they've been asking about you.”
The tears that gathered in Ash's eyes were complex—joy at knowing Cass was alive, grief at learning they were dying, relief that the searching was finally over mixed with terror about what the reunion might reveal. I pulled him against my chest, feeling the way his body trembled with emotions too large for easy processing.
“How long?” he asked against my shoulder.
“The doctors estimate several weeks, possibly longer if they respond well to treatment. Long enough for a proper reunion, long enough for conversations that matter, long enough to say goodbye if that becomes necessary.”
Ash pulled back to look at me directly, and I could see resolution building behind the tears. “We leave tonight.”
“We leave whenever you're ready,” I corrected, understanding that this journey required his timing rather than medical urgency. “Edinburgh, private facility, all arrangements handled discretely. You can take as long as you need to prepare for what might be a difficult reunion.”
The flight to Edinburgh took place in Adrian's private jet, luxury and privacy that allowed Ash to process his anxiety without external pressures. I watched him stare out windows at countryside that looked like medieval tapestries, his fingers constantly returning to the collar at his throat in the gesture that indicated deep thought rather than nervous habit.
“What if they hate what I've become?” Ash asked as we descended toward Scottish airspace. “What if they can't understand the choices I've made, the person I've allowed myself to become?”
“Then they weren't the friend you remember them being,” I replied, though I understood the fear behind the question. “People who love you want you to be happy, even when that happiness takes forms they wouldn't choose for themselves.”
The Healing Garden Medical Centre sat on fifty acres of Highland countryside, designed to provide peace and dignity for people whose lives had been shattered by systematic cruelty. The staff were accustomed to unusual visitors and complex family dynamics, which meant our arrival generated professional courtesy rather than intrusive curiosity.
“Cass has been asking about you since the day they arrived,” Dr. Elizabeth Morrison explained as she led us through corridors that managed to feel medical without being institutional. “They've been quite insistent that someone named Ash would eventually come looking for them.”
I felt Ash's hand tighten in mine, because the news that Cass had been expecting him suggested both hope and the kind of faith that had sustained them through eight years of separation and trauma.
“How are they?” Ash asked, though I could see him bracing for answers that might be difficult to hear.
“Physically, they're managing pain well and maintaining cognitive function despite significant medical challenges. Emotionally, they've been remarkably resilient, focused primarily on staying alive long enough for this reunion.”