Page 106 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“That sounds...” He had to stop, clear his throat. “That sounds perfect.”

“It's not. We're a mess, like every family. But we're your mess now, if you want us.”

“I want you.” His hand found mine, hidden between our bodies where no one could see. “All of it. Everything you're willing to give me.”

We stood there in the hallway, holding hands in the shadows while Christmas Eve settled over London. Through the doorway, I could hear Mum laughing at something Dad had said. Bea's voice, bright with teasing. The clink of glasses and the crackle of the fire.

Home. This was what home sounded like.

And for the first time, I got to share it with someone who mattered.

NINETEEN

GIFTS AND PROMISES

TOM

Boxing Day dawned cold and bright, sky scrubbed clean by overnight wind until it looked like polished glass.

Most of the estate was still sleeping off Christmas celebrations, which meant the grounds were quiet when I made my way toward the lake. Snow crunched under my boots, each step loud in the stillness, and my breath fogged white in air sharp enough to sting my lungs.

Art was already there when I arrived, bundled in his coat and that eternal scarf, sitting on our bench with his legs stretched out in front of him.

Peaceful. He looked peaceful.

“You're early,” I said, settling beside him.

“Couldn't sleep. Too quiet.” He glanced at me, and his mouth curved into that soft smile I was beginning to think of as mine. “The hut's empty. No typewriters, no chatter, no Ruth telling me to eat something. It felt strange.”

“Strange good or strange bad?”

“Just strange.” He shifted slightly, his shoulder pressing against mine. “Better now.”

We sat in silence for a while, watching the light change on the ice. The lake had frozen solid over the past week, surface smooth as glass in some places, ridged and buckled in others where the cold had worked unevenly. A family of ducks had gathered near the far bank, huddled together against the chill, occasionally letting out disgruntled quacks at their frozen circumstances.

“Do you think they're cold?” Art asked.

“The ducks?”

“They look cold. All puffed up like that.”

“They've got feathers. Built for it.”

“I know that scientifically. I'm asking if you think they're cold anyway. Emotionally.”

I turned to look at him, found him watching the ducks with genuine concern. This man. This ridiculous, brilliant, soft-hearted man who cracked Nazi codes by day and worried about the emotional wellbeing of waterfowl.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think they're probably a bit miserable. But they're sticking together. That helps.”

“Does it?”

“Always does.”

Art nodded slowly, like I'd said something profound instead of obvious. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small paper bag.

“I stole biscuits from the kitchen,” he announced. “Mrs Parker left them out to cool and I took six. Possibly seven. I lost count during the heist.”

“Art. You committed biscuit theft.”