The banister belonging to the grand staircase at Briarcliff needed polishing for certain, but not with Alfie’s arse. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she could not even manage a gasp as he flew down the thin bit of wobbly wood and popped off the end of it at the bottom, landing with perfect balance on the marble floor before her. He grinned so wide she could not admonish him.
“I’m ready,” he said, standing tall. And indeed, he did appear ready, bundled up as much as the little boy could be, only a square of his face visible beneath all the wool. Even his fingertips hid behind thick mittens.
“Is that scarf a new one?” Clara asked. It was brown and too big and seemed to be eating him alive.
He held up his hands. “The mittens as well. Grandmama made them.”
And Grandmama may not have much skill with needles and yarn. Both items of clothing seemed to be bulging in some places and too thin in others. But Alfie’s face glowed with pride. He didnot care. He’d been wrapped up tight in bulky, knitted brown love and would not have it any other way.
Clara swung an arm around his shoulders and guided him outside. Atlas waited for them in front of the house, bundled up as well in a greatcoat and beaver hat pulled low. The scruff on his jaw almost formed a beard. He leaned over the horse, hooking it to the small cart that would take them into the forest today, and he looked up as soon as Alfie’s foot hit the gravel. He smiled for her son, and that curve of happiness jumped to her lips as well. How could she not smile at a man smiling at her son? This, their connection, she’d missed it.
Clara could restore it.
“Are you ready?” Atlas called out.
Alfie ran to him. “Show me how to work the harness.”
“Please, Alfie,” Clara said. “Do sayplease.”
Atlas flashed her a look, a question, a hesitation in his gaze. She’d told him to keep his distance. She took a deep breath, released her fears, and nodded. No more distance. No more fears. She wanted her son—and her husband—to be happy.
A smile snapped into his eyes. “Are you sure?” he mouthed.
She gave another nod. “Are you sure you’re rested enough? We could restable the horse and find you a place by the fire with a plate of biscuits nearby.”
His laughter warmed her bones. “I’d rather do this.”
She searched his face, looking for any hint of hidden pain. Found none. She would care for this man as he cared for everyone else. Whether he wanted it or not.
Atlas bent to show Alfie the various buckles and bits, helping him secure them tightly, nodding when the boy did something right, and gently correcting when he did something wrong. Never a harsh word, always a guiding hand, and when they were done and Alfie jumped into the cart, Clara stood on the other side of an ocean, changed entirely. Her heart much too bigfor her chest, her usually steel-trapped eyes much too flooded to hold her emotion back. Her arms much too eager to wrap around Atlas’s neck.
He held out a hand to her. She needed no help into the cart, and no one looked on for them to pretend for, but she wanted his touch, so she took it. His hand large, strong. His skin hidden by his frayed gloves. The touch of their fingers folding next to one another like a bolt of lightning anyway. She released him as Alfie settled into a corner in the back of the cart, and Atlas took his seat and took up the reins, the entire cart dipping as his weight dropped into it. He clicked the cart into motion, and the wind streamed past her face, biting cold.
She shivered, and he flinched, turned his body toward her, lifted his elbow, as if he meant to wrap an arm around her shoulders, pull her tight against the warm wall of his body. He never finished the movements, though, slowly fell out of those half positions and toward the reins he held loosely in his hands.
“Would you like my coat?” he asked.
“No. You shall be cold then.”
“But you are cold now.”
She laughed. “Just like you. Keep your coat, Atlas. And I shall keep my own bones warm.” And in the process keep his bones warm as well.
She shivered again. This one a different sort, deeper and more dangerous. Satisfaction curled like a purring cat in her chest as the line of trees before them grew taller, more detailed. Shelikedcaring for Atlas.
“Have you ever gathered mistletoe before?” he asked.
Clara shook her head. “Alfie neither.” She supposed. There were, after all, two years or more of his life she’d not had much to do with. Details pried from servants, what Alfie remembered to tell her when they’d been allowed brief moments together. Lord Tefler had shut her off from him more and more every year. Bythe time Alfie had begged her to leave with him, she’d felt she barely knew the lines of his face. The curves of babyhood had begun to harden into angles, making his boy’s face strange to her.
She studied him every day now, taking time to catalogue the changes, remember his every expression, loving to watch him make the slow transformation from young boy to young man. Young man. Not quite yet. Not for some years. But she would never again be surprised by how time had shaped him. She glanced back at him, seeing nothing but a happy glow in the square of face visible above scarf and below hat.
Turning back around she asked, “How’s it done? Finding mistletoe.”
Atlas patted the seat. “I’ve brought a rifle with us. Stored below. Mistletoe grows in the top of trees. We could climb?—”
“Climb?” Alfie was between them, mitten hands wrapped tightly around the back of the seat, eyes wide. “I can do it.”
“It’s why I’ve brought you along. You’re the expert. We have to hunt it first, though. Do you have a good eye, Alfie?”
