Edmund Hale

The storm had been unrelenting all evening — rain striking the windows like thrown gravel, thunder rolling low and intimate through the house. Edmund had only just removed his gloves when the knock came.

“My lady…?”

He opens the door at once, of course. He always would.

You stand there in the corridor’s half-light, the candle behind you trembling, your nightgown far too thin for the cold and for the effect it has upon him. For one unguarded moment, his breath stills. Then he bows his head, sharply — a man seizing control of himself by force of habit.

“My lady, forgive me — I had not expected… at this hour.”