Page 74 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Forget I said that.”

“Not a chance.” He stood, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him even through layers of wool. “For the record, there's nothing wrong with your eyes either.”

“Tom.”

“Just stating facts.” He reached out, adjusted my scarf where it had slipped. His fingers brushed my jaw, lingered for just a moment. “Come on. Before you freeze and I have to explain to Finch why I let his best cryptanalyst turn into an icicle.”

“His best?”

“Don't fish for compliments. It's unbecoming.”

“I'm not fishing. I'm genuinely asking.”

“Yes, Art. His best. Everyone knows it. You're the only one who doesn't seem to believe it.” He started walking toward the estate, then looked back when I didn't follow. “Coming?”

I stood there for a moment, watching him, this man who'd somehow become the centre of everything without my noticing.

“Yeah,” I said. “I'm coming.”

FIFTEEN

FAMILIAL QUESTIONS

TOM

Sleep wouldn't come, so I stopped pretending.

My narrow bed felt like lying on nails, mattress thin enough that I could feel every ridge of the frame underneath. Cold seeped through the single blanket I'd been issued, through the walls, through the floorboards, until it felt like the December freeze had taken up permanent residence in my bones.

I sat up, gave up on sleep entirely, and lit the stub of candle on the small table beside my bed.

Candlelight turned the room amber and shadow. Made the walls feel closer. Made the silence louder somehow, emphasising the absence of artillery, of shouted orders, of Danny's snoring from the next cot over.

Just me and the quiet and thoughts that wouldn't stop circling.

Madam Fortuna's voice kept drifting back to me. That small dressing room with its wigs and makeup pots, the way she'd looked at me like she could see straight through to the parts I kept hidden.

You want to know what this is. What we are. What he is. What you might be.

I'd told her I was starting to understand. Starting to feel things I didn't have words for. But sitting here in the dark, I wasn't sure that was true. Understanding implied clarity, and there was nothing clear about the mess inside my chest.

Art's face kept surfacing in my mind. The way he'd looked in the starlight by the lake, head tilted back to trace constellations, voice softening as he taught me words in a language meant for people like him. The patience in his teaching. The surprise when I'd caught on quickly. The quiet laugh when I'd mangled the pronunciation but got the meaning right.

His hand finding mine in the dark. Cold fingers settling against mine like they belonged there.

I'd held hands with exactly one other person in my adult life, and she'd been a nurse changing my bandages who'd needed to steady my arm. This had been nothing like that. This had been deliberate. Chosen.

The candle flickered. I reached for the photograph on my bedside table, the only one I owned. Creased and faded, carried through too many campaigns. Mum in her Sunday dress, Dad with his docker's cap, Rose grinning like she'd just said something cheeky, Alfie squinting against the sun. Me in the back, barely twenty, skinny and serious.

That boy in the photograph had never killed anyone. Had never wondered if wanting another man meant something was broken inside him.

Had never met Arthur Pembroke.

I stared at the photograph until my eyes burned. Then I made a decision.

I had three days of leave owing. Hadn't planned to use them, hadn't seen the point of going anywhere when everywhere felt the same. But suddenly I needed to go home. Needed to see myfamily. Needed to remember who I'd been before all of this, and figure out who I was becoming.

The request went through without fuss. Light duty personnel weren't hard to spare, and Finch barely glanced at the paperwork before signing off. By morning, I was on a train heading east, watching the countryside blur past the window and trying not to think too hard about what I was doing.