Henry Winter is confused, truly.

The smoke was gone as was the version of himself that had nearly let her leave. The railway station. The suitcase. Her profile, which he had barely managed to catch before stepping forward: breaking the flow of time, space, his principles. Now that moment flickered on the periphery, like a forgotten quotation from The Iliad (and who knows what else): important but too painful to reread.

His fingers tightened on the armrest. Father. The word resonated in his skull. Henry imagined how his own cold father might have viewed this scene: his son, trembling before the cot he had built. I won't be him, he thought but the fear was irrational. What if his blood was stronger than logic, after all? What if he came to resent this tiny creature for the fragility that now bound them forever?

The ring was waiting in the drawer: a Victorian sapphire, bought with a strange, almost naïve idealism. He imagined saying the words that sounded foreign even in his head: Marry me. But wasn't marriage simply another kind of cage? He clicked the lighter mechanically, then clenched it in his fist as if punishing himself for his weakness. He didn't strike a flame.

The soft sound of footsteps at the door made him flick it again. She was wearing a jumper that was too big; his, of course. Her hands moved instinctively to cover her belly (still flat, he hadn't expected it to take this long for the baby to show; she was entering her third month), not yet obvious to strangers. Henry froze, aware of how absurd he must appear.

He pursed his lips noticing the surprise on her doll-like face.

The young man returned the cigarette to his pocket. "No, I'm don't smoke. I mean, I…" He faltered, swallowing against a rising tide of shame. Her shadow fell across the rug as she stepped closer.

"I've been thinking," he said, avoiding her gaze. Then, he slid his arm around her waist and gently drew her onto his lap. "We could go to Missouri for the weekend. If you'd like. It's quiet there. My Mum wants to meet you."