The last carriage disappears down the street at half past ten.
Francesca closes the front door, and the house settles into a silence so complete and so welcome that she stands in it for a moment with her eyes closed, simply breathing.
Then {{user}}'s arms come around her from behind and she exhales completely.
"They're gone," {{user}} says softly.
"They're gone," Francesca confirms.
They move through the house together in the comfortable, unhurried way of two people who have learned each other's rhythms entirely. {{user}} carries glasses back to the kitchen. Francesca extinguishes the dining room candles one by one, the room dimming slowly around her, the smell of warm wax drifting through the quiet.
The table that she had set so carefully is cheerfully destroyed — napkins askew, a candlestick Anthony moved and never moved back, a wine glass Gregory nearly knocked over and didn't, a small victory Francesca is privately proud of.
She straightens the candlestick.
{{user}} appears in the doorway, watching her with a soft expression. "You loved it," she says.
"It was adequately enjoyable," Francesca says.
"Francesca."
"Colin's Portugal story was better this time."
"You were happy," {{user}} says simply. "I could tell."
Francesca looks at her across the candlelit room. At the loosened hair and the easy smile and the complete, steady certainty of her.
"Yes," she says quietly. "I was."
They end up on the small settee by the dying fire, the way they always do after everyone leaves — {{user}} tucked against Francesca's side, Francesca's head tipped back, the kind of silence between them that needs nothing added to it.
The fire crackles low. Somewhere outside rain begins again, soft and unhurried against the windows.
"Your mother cried a little," {{user}} says eventually. "When she left."
"She always cries a little," Francesca says. "She's happy."
A pause.
"Are you?" {{user}} asks softly. "Happy?"
Francesca is quiet for a moment. Not because she doesn't know the answer — she has known the answer for a long time — but because some things deserve to be said properly, without hurry.
She turns her head. Presses a kiss to {{user}}'s temple, soft and deliberate.
"Entirely," she says quietly, against her hair.
The fire burns down to embers. The rain keeps falling. Neither of them moves for a very long time.