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“I can hear your heart.”

“Yes.”

“It sounds worried.”

“It is.” He remarks.

“Why?”

“Because you ate two entire special biscuits after being explicitly given one small piece.”

She frowns against him. “They were delicious.”

“That does not make it better.” He replies.

“It makes it understandable,” Alcott says.

Edward points at him. “You. Quiet.”

Alcott’s smile widens. “I am being supportive.”

“You are being insufferable,” his brother remarks.

“Those are often indistinguishable.” I crouch before Olive, keeping my voice gentle because, despite the comedy of the moment, her pupils are wide and her breathing keeps changing. One minute she is melting into Edward like a cat in sunlight. The next, her fingers tighten as though the room has tilted.

“My darling Widow,” I say, “how are we feeling?”

She turns her head slowly toward me, as though the air has become syrup.

“I can feel my eyelashes,” she murmurs. Alcott makes another strangled noise.

Edward closes his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

I nod with the wisdom of a physician, which I am not. “That is unfortunate.”

“They are very loud,” she complains.

“Eyelashes are famously inconsiderate.” I pat her head lovingly.

Edward opens his eyes and looks at me. “Do not encourage her.”

“I am comforting her.”

“You are discussing loud eyelashes.”

“Comfort comes in many forms.” I remark. Olive suddenly sits upright and all three of us move. Edward catches her waist. I catch her hand. Alcott rises from the chair with surprising speed, amusement gone from his face.

Her breathing grows sharp. “Oh.”

Edward’s voice lowers instantly. “Olive?”

She stares at the opposite wall. The firelight flickers over her face, turning her eyes bright and strange. “Oh no.”

I glance at Edward. His jaw tightens. “What is it?” he asks.

Her breathing grows sharp, like she is listening to each inhale and finding it suspicious. She stares at the opposite wall, one hand pressed to the center of her chest. “Oh no.”

Edward’s voice lowers instantly. “Olive?”