Page 101 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“However,” Finch continued, voice sharpening, “you are reminded that all security protocols remain in effect. You will not discuss your work. You will not bring unauthorized persons back to the estate. You will conduct yourselves appropriately and remember that you represent this institution wherever you go.”

His gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on me, then on Tom. “Dismissed. Enjoy your holiday.”

He left, and the room erupted into planning. Who was going where, what they'd do, the overwhelming relief of forty-eight hours away from codes and intercepts and the weight of the war.

Noor appeared at my elbow. “You should go to London. See your family. When's the last time you saw them?”

“Months. But I don't know if?—”

“You're going. I'm not arguing. You look like a strong wind could knock you over, and seeing your sister will help.” She paused. “Or you could go with someone else. Someone tall. Someone who watches you like you're the only person in the room.”

Heat flooded my face. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sure you don't.” She grinned. “Just. Be careful. And be happy. Those aren't mutually exclusive.”

She left before I could respond, and I sat there processing.

London. With Tom. Two days away from this place, from Finch's watchful eyes, from the constant pressure of maintaining distance.

Two days to just be.

If he wanted to. If he'd come.

Looked across the room again. Found Tom already looking back. Raised an eyebrow in question.

He nodded. Small. Certain.

My heart did something complicated in my chest.

This was happening. We were doing this.

Perfect.

London swallowedus whole the moment we stepped off the train at King's Cross.

Noise crashed over me like a wave. Vendors shouting, steam hissing from engines, the clatter of a hundred footsteps on platform stones, children crying, soldiers laughing, someone playing an accordion badly in the corner. My brain tried to process it all at once, cataloguing every input, and I felt my shoulders creep up towards my ears, tension coiling tight in my spine.

Tom's hand touched my elbow, just briefly. “Alright?”

“Give me a moment.” I closed my eyes, counted to ten, let my fingers find the edge of my scarf. The wool was familiar, comforting. Mum's knitting. I rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, the repetitive motion grounding me, pulling me back from the edge of sensory overload.

When I opened my eyes, Tom was watching me with that careful attention he'd developed. The kind that didn't feel like pity or impatience. Just understanding.

“Better?” he asked.

“Better. Let's go before I change my mind about this whole expedition.”

His mouth twitched. “Can't have that. I've been promised a proper introduction to the Pembroke family.”

I smiled at him sweetly.

We pushed through the crowds, Tom moving slightly ahead to clear a path, his broad shoulders parting the sea of people. I followed in his wake, grateful for the buffer, trying not to think about what I was about to do. What I was about to risk.

Outside, the city hit me all over again. But it wasn't just the noise and movement. It was London itself. Changed. Wounded.

I stopped walking, and Tom nearly collided with me.

“Art? What's—” He followed my gaze, and his voice died.