Eliza turned toward Tristan, a sly smile tugging her lips. “Did you hear that?”
He raised a hand. “Do not.”
Her laugh answered him, light and bright against the deepening storm outside.
Kale gestured toward the stairwell. “This way. You will be comfortable here for the night.”
He walked them up to the second floor, the stairs creaking beneath his boots. At the door, he turned the key and pushed it open. “If you need anything, do not hesitate to call.”
“Thank you,” Tristan said.
Once the man and his daughter left, silence settled. Nothing could be heard except the brewing storm lashing hard at the shutters. Tristan slipped out of his coat and hung it on the peg by the door, and Eliza crossed to the fireplace, crouching low as she held her hands toward the flames.
“Mr. Kale seems kind,” she said over her shoulder.
Tristan nodded. “He does. A man who loves his work.”
Her gaze lingered on the fire, but her voice had grown quieter. “It is such a shame all of that may soon be taken from him.”
Tristan exhaled. The words pressed against something heavy in his chest. He joined her near the fire, though he remained standing, watching the way the light brushed against her profile.
“I wish there was something we could do,” Eliza murmured. “Something that could help him now and not later.”
Tristan’s jaw tightened. “I wish the same.”
For a time, neither of them spoke. Tristan eventually broke the silence by turning away from the fire. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head, a small smile forming. “No. The fire is enough.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes. Quite.”
He studied her for a heartbeat longer, then nodded. “Very well.”
The bed was ready and made enough for the two of them. Tristan sat at the edge and stared off at the wall. He tried to think of anything. The storm outside, the cat Eliza had been playing with, but nothing fully replaced the burrowing thought of the Berkeley Project in his mind.
Eliza crossed the room and sat on the opposite edge of the bed. She did not speak; instead, she folded her hands in her lap and let her eyes settle on the flames.
Tristan’s mind, on the other hand, would not grow quiet. What truly was the Berkeley Project? A plan of progress, or a mask for greed? Who stood to gain, and who stood to lose?
“Goodnight,” Eliza offered, planting her back on the cushion, her hands resting gently on her stomach. Tristan looked at her and nodded.
“Yes. Goodnight,” he responded and turned back to the wall. Something told him the thoughts in his head wouldn’t leave him soon.
Not until he did something about it.
The rain was most definitely what the world needed. The next morning came with the kind of clean air that made people appreciate life even more, especially Tristan. He stepped out of his room and walked down the stairs, fastening the last button of his coat.
Down in the reception room, Mr. Kale sat behind his desk. Lemon, smug as ever, was perched on the table, his tail swishing lazily back and forth.
“Good morning, my lord,” The older man said, rising half a breath as Tristan approached.
“Good morning,” Tristan answered, giving a brief glance to the cat before meeting the innkeeper’s eyes. “I suppose you had a good night and there was no trouble at all?”
“No trouble at all,” Mr. Kale responded. “Does the lady require anything?”
“Eliza is still asleep,” Tristan said. “She seemed tired after last evening.”
