Tom McGwen spoke very little to her the length of the ride, and Meg did not bother trying to penetrate his silence. If he wished to brood, so be it.
Besides, he had made it very clear he did not wish to hear her voice.
Fine.
She did not wish to hear his either.
By the time they reached Juleshead, most of the village lights were still unlit, and only a faint hue of yellow softened the sky. Their horse hooves clip-clopped on the cobblestones. The air smelled like primrose bushes and brisk freshness as they passed gold-colored storefronts and row houses.
A mother goose and her ducklings wandered into the street. Tom waited until they passed before urging his horse forward again.
When they reached a round-tower church, Tom tied his horse to a beech tree and swung Meg from the saddle. He led her inside.
The nave was empty and narrow, with an old stone altar and white plastered walls. A massive window with fifteenth-century tracery filtered dusty sunlight into the room.
“Here.” Tom motioned her into a box pew. “We’re early.”
She situated herself, pulled off her gloves, and resisted the urge to scoot farther away when Tom sat next to her.
The fabric of his brown coat touched her jacket. Odd that it stirred a faint rustling in her chest. She fidgeted. Sighed. Then finally gave in to her discomfort and slid an inch away from him. “Now what?”
“We’re early.”
“You said that already.”
He glanced at her, neither with amusement nor annoyance, and leaned back in his seat. He propped his boots on the opposite bench.
“In truth, sir, I did not imagine you attended services.”
“I wish ye wouldnae call me that.”
“Sir?”
“Aye.”
“What did I call you before?”
“Same thing as everyone else.” He stroked his beard. “My name.”
“Very well. Tom.” Turning toward him, leaning an elbow on the box pew wall, she studied his face. “You did not answer me. I seem to recall your reluctance during a previous conversation to acknowledge the handiworks of God.”
“I come to church.”
“Begrudgingly?”
Tom sent her a quick side look before turning his eyes back to the front of the nave. A wry grin quirked his lips. “Listening to the vicar is like hearing yer uncle rattle off tincture recipes.”
“But you do believe.” When his lips flattened, she prodded, “Do you not?”
Pain bothered his face—a look she knew only because she’d felt the cold prongs of despair herself. Surprise flicked through her. Tom McGwen knew grief. And it had nothing to do with her or now or anything that had happened as consequence to the black-edged notes.
He had told Meg her own secret. Had he ever told her his?
As the cloud vanished, he pointed across the church with a smirk. “See that pew?”
“Yes.”
“One time old Mr. Hickinbottom, the sheepherder, had another of his falling sicknesses. He toppled over in the middle of the vicar’s sermon, and while everyone else was whispering and doing nary a thing, ye climbed over the box pew, pulled him out into the aisle, and set to cradling his head until it passed.”
