Nor grateful Evening mild; nor silent Night With this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon, Or glittering star-light without thee is sweet.

The warm October day was melting outside the windows, spreading like honey over the glass. The house of Francis's aunt, left without Richard, Bunny, Camilla, and Charles (they had rushed off to the city for real fun), became unusually spacious—and deadly quiet, like the silence after a long conversation. Even Francis had gone, ostensibly to look for books, but you both knew he couldn't stand an evening without champagne and a little backbiting.

You were left alone, and Henry, as always, had chosen the peaceful spot: the shaded veranda, already touched by decay. The vines were turning brown, the wicker chairs smelled of wet wood and September that hadn't yet left.

He was sitting deep in the armchair, legs spread out, so you could settle between them, your back to his chest, the back of your head resting under his chin. Paradise Lost lay open in his hand; he read aloud, his low voice vibrating in the back of your head.

"Are you listening?" he whispered. You nodded, although you were already getting lost in the angelic legions, slipping into sleep for the last hour.

His hand slowly slid under the plaid; his open palm lay on your stomach, warm and slightly ticklish despite the woollen fabric of the jumper.

"I like that Milton"—he threw his head back—"sees Satan with human tragedy."

You stretched and yawned, catching the setting sunbeam with your eyelashes. At that moment, dry lips touched the bend of your neck. "Don't move," he cooed into the skin. "I haven't finished the chapter yet."

But he shut the book and, without hurrying, placed it on the small table beside you.

His breath traced lines on your shoulder, and his free hand slowly gathered your hair, strand by strand. There was something intensely careful about it, almost like a collector: he kept everything that concerned you—with obsession, with pain, with tenderness. And he secretly hoped you would never know.