Chapter 2 - The House That Learned to Breathe AgainVincent walked through Blackthorne like a man entering someone else's property.
Because, in a way, it was.
The old manor was warm.
Not merely heated.
Alive.
Children's drawings covered one wall.
A Christmas tree stood in the corner.
There were bookshelves.
A large dining table.
A piano.
Photographs.
Claire had placed them everywhere.
Families.
Graduations.
Birthdays.
People smiling.
Vincent stopped at one photograph.
Claire stood in the middle of a group of children.
She looked happier than he had ever seen her.
One little girl was hugging her waist.
Vincent stared.
“Who are they?”
“Families from the shelter.”
“How many?”
“Forty-two residents this month.”
His head turned sharply.
“You've been housing forty-two people?”
“Yes.”
“In my manor?”
“Our manor.”
He looked at her.
Claire folded her arms.
“You left it.”
“I never gave it to you.”
“You left it to me.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“It felt the same.”
The words landed harder than she intended.
Vincent looked away.
Margaret approached with tea.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Margaret.”
The older woman looked at him for several seconds.
Then said,
“You're late.”
Vincent's expression hardened.
“At least you're honest.”
“I learned from Mrs. Moretti.”
Claire almost laughed.
Vincent looked around again.
“Where is everyone?”
“Dinner.”
“Why aren't they afraid of me?”
Claire shrugged.
“Because I never told them what you are.”
His eyes narrowed.
“And what am I?”
“A man with too much power and too little practice using it kindly.”
Margaret nearly dropped the tea tray.
Vincent stared at Claire.
She smiled politely.
“Sit.”
He didn't move.
“Please.”
He sat.
A little boy ran through the room.
He was maybe seven.
He stopped when he saw Vincent.
“Who are you?”
Vincent looked at him.
“Vincent.”
“Are you Claire's husband?”
Silence.
Claire coughed into her hand.
Vincent glanced at her.
“Yes.”
The boy nodded.
“Then you're the one who never comes home.”
Claire closed her eyes.
“Elliot.”
“What?”
“Go wash your hands.”
The child ran away.
Vincent stared after him.
Claire sighed.
“Children aren't subtle.”
“I noticed.”
Dinner was noisy.
Vincent had never eaten in a room like that.
There were arguments over mashed potatoes.
Children stole bread.
Someone spilled juice.
A woman named Nora asked Vincent whether he liked snow.
He answered, “No.”
She said, “Then you're weird.”
Claire nearly choked.
Vincent looked at her.
She was laughing.
Actually laughing.
He hadn't heard that sound in years.
Something painful moved through him.
After dinner, he found Claire in the kitchen.
She was washing dishes.
“You shouldn't do that.”
“Why?”
“There are staff.”
“They have families too.”
“You run a charity.”
“I run a home.”
He leaned against the doorway.
“Why?”
She dried a plate.
“Because I had nowhere to go.”
His expression changed.
“You had me.”
Claire looked at him.
“No.”
The word was gentle.
“You had a contract.”
Silence.
He deserved that.
She continued.
“I was sick. I was scared. I was newly married to a man who couldn't look at me without remembering he hadn't wanted me.”
“I wanted you.”
“Not then.”
He looked away.
“I thought leaving was safer.”
“For who?”
“For you.”
Claire laughed softly.
“I spent three winters thinking I might die alone.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“I sent doctors.”
“I needed my husband.”
He had no answer.
That night, he stood outside the manor balcony.
Snow fell over the lake.
Claire joined him.
“You're leaving tomorrow?”
He looked at her.
“I don't know.”
“Why not?”
“Because this isn't what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“A locked house.”
“A sick woman.”
“A grave.”
She looked at him.
“You really thought I was dead?”
“I thought you might be.”
“Did you care?”
Vincent took a long time to answer.
“Yes.”
She stared at him.
“Then why didn't you come?”
He couldn't answer.
Not honestly.
Not yet.
So he said the only thing he could.
“I thought I was protecting you.”
Claire's eyes hardened.
“Stop using protection as an excuse for abandonment.”
She walked away.
Vincent remained on the balcony.
Below him, children's laughter floated through the snow.
May you like
For the first time in three years, he wondered whether the worst thing he had ever done had not been entering a criminal war.
It had been leaving his wife alone.
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