Page 208 of Dark King Daddy

She didn’t.

I was content to wait.

Upstairs, she changed into the cartoon-cat pyjamas and washed her face. I was pulling a T-shirt over my head when she appeared beside the wardrobe holding a paper bag.

“For you.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Only if you don’t like it.”

I sat on the bed. Inside the bag was a sketchbook and a canvas roll tied with a green ribbon. I undid the ribbon. Drawing pencils, each in its own narrow pocket. An eraser. A sharpener.

I looked up at her.

“This afternoon,” she said. “After the bathhouse. I went to the art shop.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know. I wanted to.”

I took out a pencil. The wood was smooth, the point freshly sharpened.

She sat beside me, one knee folded beneath her.

“You enjoyed it today.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you might want to do it again.”

I turned the pencil between my fingers. There had been plenty of gifts in my life. Watches. Cufflinks. Bottles that cost more than anyone should pay for a drink. Things chosen for a man whose name appeared at the top of a document.

Ksenia had watched me draw a crooked line and gone out to buy me pencils.

“Come here.”

“I’m already here.”

I put down the sketchbook and pulled her into my arms. She came willingly, laughing a little as she settled across my lap.

“Oh. Here.”

I held her until her hand came to rest at the back of my neck.

“Thank you,” I said.

She kissed my cheek.

“You’re welcome.”

I should have said more. I wanted to. But she leaned her forehead against mine, and for once I let what I had said be enough.

We went downstairs for tea. She carried the sketchbook; I brought the pencils.

At the kitchen table, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders while I filled the cups. She watched the new light as though it might change its mind.

“It’s staying,” I told her.