And still he thought it sounded as if she were speaking to someone else. To someone who was not him; to someone she had not thought would reply.
“Aurelie,” he murmured, so soft nearly that even he did not hear himself, after a few moments. There was no sound again but the crickets and the wind rustling through the grass. She must not have heard, he thought. That, too, was a very safe thought. As if he had whispered her name to the window, and the sound of his voice had not quite reached through the glass.
It was difficult, for the first few hours, not to let his mind wander.
At first, it was of her. He could not keep himself from turning over the words like stones, and then shaking down the tone of her voice like he might have searched a criminal. Going through the cupboards, searching for stains underneath the rug. Reconstructing whatever he could from the pattern of the shattered glass.
I suppose not, she had said, sounding dull again – dull and disappointed. What would she have said, if he had asked why she was sorry? It frightened him to think of. To talk to her, really to talk, like opening up the window. Like pulling a single straw, and then another, and then another, out from under the last ten years, watching the structure begin to lean.
And what other questions had he for her?
Questions he would never ask.
There was sometimes the quiet slop of Shadow licking his chops, or snorting and sighing in his sleep. He really was a threadbare dog. How was she sleeping with him? He stank to the high heavens.
And what on Vita would Inspector Morandi do with him? She had seemed to want him to keep pup for himself. Why, by Hurte, did she trust him that much? He had done nothing to convince her he would not be an even crueler master than the streets.
Well, he would find Shadow a kind master or mistress. That, at least, he held onto.
Off and on, he heard the creak of the springs. They sounded sharp, uneven. He heard the soft sounds of shifting; he wondered if her ankle would keep her from sleeping, too.
Once, he heard a sniff. Strangely alert, he trained himself to the dark. He heard a hitch of breath; that was it. More creaking. A long, low whine from pup, and more sloppy noises, and – he thought – a little laugh, and silence for a while.
There was a lump in his throat.
The night was more chill, perhaps, than he had thought; he could not prevent himself shivering. He felt grimy with the sweat that had dried on his skin, the dirt and dust. His muscles ached. By now, he would have taken his exercise, would have run or trained with weights. It had been a long day, and still he felt restless, tight, twitchy, as ready as a hound at the end of a leash.
And then he woke up.
He was not sure when he had slept. He felt as if he had pulled a muscle. He was propped against the table, his palm pressed against his cheek, his arm entirely asleep. There was a new warmth in the air, one that made him feel distinctly sticky. His head, as ever, ached wretchedly.
It must have been light out; he was damnably bleary-eyed, and all he could see was a blur of grey –
Light.
“Aurelie,” he gasped without thinking.
He heard the snap of pup’s jaws, and a curious whine. He blinked; a room, hazy, came into focus. His head jerked: there was a small blur of red in one corner.
“Aurelie,” he said, before he realized what it was he said. Still, the name was warm and lovely on his tongue. He waited, bolt upright, for her to wake; his heart was in his throat. He dared not hope. He had never been rewarded for hope. But perhaps – surely…