She freed a hand to wipe quickly at her eyes. “Oh, yes. A bit tired, that’s all.”
“A big house,” said Margaret again, very soft.
“I miss the heat, I think.” She rubbed her eyes again, then pushed the opal rings covering her fingers back into place. She stared down at them, so heavy and vivid, and heard herself say, “I ache to be warm. I know it sounds woebegone, it sounds silly, but honestly, I do. And not just warm by the fire as we are now, roasting on your left while freezing on your right, like a chicken half cooked. Warm from the air, from the green trees and the sun, surrounded by June. June! It feels as if this winter has dragged on forever, and it’s only December still.”
“The cold can whittle you straight down to the marrow, I swear. I do know that.”
“I just don’t—” She swallowed hard against the thickness in her throat—stop crying, don’t be stupid, don’t cry—and when she spoke again, the tremble in her voice had flattened out. “I just don’t know when it will be warm again. That’s all.”
The door to the room swept open on its silent hinges. Jack walked in, still shrugging out of his overcoat, trailed by Kitty and a footman. He tossed the coat back to the footman without looking （who caught it expertly mid-air in a slither of satin and wool）， smiling all the while.
“Hello, sweet wife. Good morning, Margaret. Madeleine sent word that you’d come.”
He leaned down to kiss Madeleine on the forehead, his moustache prickling. She averted her eyes but lifted her hand to brush his cheek, her fingers falling away as he straightened. “Quite a brisk morning out there! I’m happy to see you both by the fire.”
“It does make a difference,” Margaret said. “As long as we don’t run out of wood.”
Jack laughed, headed to the tea service. “No chance of that.” He glanced around, impatient. “Wilton? I’d like some coffee, please. And whatever assortment of cakes or pastries the kitchen has on hand. Maybe some of those macaroons from yesterday, if there are any left.”
A new footman—not the one with Jack’s coat; Madeleine was still trying to remember everyone’s names—inclined his head and murmured, “Right away, sir,” before backing out of the room.
“Do you know, darling, I’ve been considering your idea about adjusting the meal schedule.”
Madeleine tried to sound interested. “Oh?”
“Breakfast was too early today, I think, because I’m half-starved now, and it’s nowhere near noon. Margaret, are you staying for lunch?”
“If you’ll have me.”
“Certainly.”
“Actually, if you’ll have me, I’m staying overnight.”
“Are you? Wonderful. Madeleine could use the company.”
They were nearly her own words, minutes before. Nearly, but she had said we, and he had not.
She kept her gaze on the window, the pallid light. She drew the air in past her teeth, blew it out again, slow, restrained, exhaling the tightness in her chest.
Jack planted himself on a cut-velvet settee, slinging an arm along the high, scalloped line of the back.
“What’s on the schedule for today, ladies? Shopping? A ride through the park?”
“Jack,” said Margaret. “Let’s talk about January, instead of today.”
He smiled again, tapping his fingers against the wooden scroll topping the settee, and for no reason other than that, Madeleine remembered him in their bed last night, the touch of his hands against her, hard and hungry and eager, burning warm, because the cold never seemed to infect him, not ever.
“January? Is there some momentous event approaching?”
“Maybe.” Margaret shot a glance at Madeleine, then back to Jack. “I’m taking my daughter Helen to Egypt. She’s never been, and has been pestering me about it for ages. I suppose it’s something all the young people want to do now, the Egyptian grand tour. It’s become a contest to see who can collect the most postcards from Memphis or Cairo or Thebes. The Sphinx, the Valley of the Kings, all that. I heard even Pierpont Morgan’s headed to Khargeh soon to inspect the ruins. Helen’s going to be studying at the Sorbonne, so we wanted to get in the trip while we could. Have you ever wintered in Egypt?”
Jack drew up one leg, crossed his ankle over his knee and flicked the cuff of his trouser leg back into place.
（—and she had stroked that ankle, that knee, dragged her nails up the flesh of his shin, learning his joints, the hard separations of muscle against muscle, masculine and lean, her mouth and body mastering every bit of him, ankle to knee, knee to thigh, thigh to—）