Page 108 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“You're going to make me say something sentimental,” I warned.

“Would that be so terrible?”

“Might ruin my reputation as a hardened soldier.”

“Your reputation is safe with me.” His hand found mine, cold fingers threading through mine. “Say something sentimental. I want to hear it.”

“Fine.” I took a breath. “This is the happiest I've been in years. Maybe ever. Standing on a frozen lake with a man who steals biscuits and worries about ducks, and I don't want to be anywhere else.”

Art's smile could have melted the ice beneath our feet. “That was very sentimental.”

“Told you.”

“I liked it.”

“Good.” I squeezed his hand. “Now can we please get off this lake before we fall through and die of hypothermia?”

“One more minute.” He tugged me toward another clear patch, this one showing darker depths beneath. “Look. You can see fish.”

I looked. Sure enough, a few dark shapes moved lazily beneath the ice, suspended in their frozen world, waiting for spring.

“Do you think they know we're here?” Art asked.

“They're fish. They don't know much of anything.”

“That's very dismissive of fish intelligence.”

“I'm comfortable with that.”

He laughed, the sound bright and startling in the quiet morning. A real laugh, unguarded and free, and I realisedI'd never heard him laugh like that before. Not really. Not without the edge of anxiety or self-consciousness that usually accompanied his rare moments of humour.

This was just joy. Pure and simple and directed at nothing more significant than a bad joke about fish.

I wanted to make him laugh like that every day for the rest of my life.

“Alright,” he said, still smiling. “We can go back now. I've fulfilled my lifetime ambition of standing on a frozen lake and judging fish.”

“A worthy ambition.”

“I thought so.”

We made our way carefully back to shore, helping each other over the rougher patches, and collapsed onto our bench with the relief of survivors.

“My feet are freezing,” Art announced.

“Should have worn better shoes.”

“Should have, yes. Didn't think of it in the excitement of my criminal biscuit activities.” He pulled his feet up onto the bench, tucking them under him like a child. “This is nice. Just being here. Not thinking about anything important.”

“When's the last time you did that? Not thought about anything important?”

He considered. “1936, possibly. I had a very good afternoon at the British Museum looking at coins. Nothing important about coins.”

“Nothing?”

“Well. Historically important, perhaps. But not urgently important. Not lives-at-stake important.” His fingers found his scarf, working the wool in that familiar rhythm. “That's the problem, isn't it? Everything feels urgent now. Every minute I'm not working, people might be dying because I chose to rest instead.”

“Art.”