Page 38 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Because this is the work. Your work. The whole point of what we do here.” He leaned back in his chair. “Every decrypt you produce has consequences. Men live and die based on what you uncover. This one simply makes those consequences more... visible.”

I said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“Dismissed,” Finch said. “And Pembroke? Get some sleep. You look like death.”

I walked back out into the snow, and the cold hit me like absolution I didn't deserve. The grounds were quiet, most people having retreated inside as the afternoon darkened toward evening. My breath fogged white in the air, and I stood there fora long moment, just breathing, just existing in a body that felt suddenly too small to contain everything I was feeling.

Snow fell in fat,lazy flakes that caught in my hair and melted against my face in small cold shocks. It had already covered the paths in a thick blanket that crunched under my boots, and the familiar landscape of the estate looked strange and new, edges softened, details obscured.

My glasses fogged immediately. I took them off, wiped them on my scarf, put them back on. Fogged again within seconds. This was winter's special torture for anyone who needed corrective lenses: the choice between seeing clearly and seeing at all through the condensation.

I kept them on, blinking away fog, and walked without destination. Just movement. Just cold air burning my lungs and snow collecting on my shoulders and the particular kind of quiet that came with heavy snowfall muffling every sound.

Near the lake, voices and laughter drifted across the white expanse. A group of staff had ventured onto the ice, skating or trying to, mostly just sliding around and grabbing each other for balance. Someone shrieked as they went down hard on their backside. Someone else laughed, bright and uncomplicated.

I stopped at a distance, watching.

They looked happy. Cold and probably bruised but genuinely happy, finding joy in something as simple as ice and momentum and the shared experience of controlled falling. Normal people doing normal things, the kind of casual social activity that should have been easy but felt impossible from where I stood.

I could join them. Technically. Could walk down there and ask to borrow skates and stumble around like everyone else, laughing at my own clumsiness, being part of the group.

But the thought of it made my chest tight. Too many variables. Too much physical contact, accidental bumping, people grabbing at me for balance. Too much noise and movement and the expectation that I'd know how to perform enjoyment in a way that looked natural rather than calculated.

And the cold. The deep, seeping cold that would soak through my clothes and leave me shivering and miserable while everyone else seemed perfectly fine. My body had never regulated temperature properly, always too hot or too cold, never the comfortable medium other people apparently experienced without effort.

So I stood at the edge and watched and told myself I was choosing solitude rather than admitting I didn't know how to be part of something that looked so effortless for everyone else.

“Not tempted to join them?”

Tom's voice made me jump. I turned to find him a few feet away, hands in his pockets, snow collecting on his shoulders. How long had he been standing there? How had I not noticed him approach?

“Not particularly,” I said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near defensive.

“Too cold for skating?”

“Too awkward for falling repeatedly while people watch.”

His mouth twitched. “Fair point. I've seen you walk. Skating would be a disaster.”

“Thank you for that vote of confidence.”

“Just being honest.” But there was warmth in his voice, the kind that suggested he was teasing rather than mocking. “You're too clever to fall on your arse in public. Dignity and all that.”

“Exactly. My dignity is my most precious asset.” I adjusted my glasses, which had fogged again. “What's your excuse?”

“Same as yours. Too stubborn to embarrass myself in front of an audience.” He gestured toward the bench near the water's edge, the one that had become accidentally significant. “Want to sit? I've got cigarettes.”

Did I want to sit in the cold with Tom, sharing cigarettes and probably making stilted conversation that would reveal how profoundly bad I was at normal human interaction? No. Obviously not. That sounded uncomfortable and awkward and likely to end with me saying something wrong.

“Yes,” I heard myself say.

We walked to the bench together. Tom brushed snow off the seat with his gloved hand before we sat, a small courtesy that made my chest do something complicated. He pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes and offered me one.

I didn't smoke regularly. Never had developed the habit despite everyone around me chain-smoking like it was an Olympic sport. But sometimes, in moments like this when I needed something to do with my hands and mouth, a cigarette helped.

I took one. Tom lit it for me, cupping his hands around the flame to shield it from the wind, and I watched his face in the brief flare of light. Serious. Focused. The way he probably looked down a rifle scope, all his attention narrowed to a single point.

Then the lighter snapped shut and we were back in the grey afternoon, smoke curling between us.