Goodnight, Élisabeth - Chapter 44

Rafaela woke to light pressing through the gap in the curtains.

She rarely slept past dawn. But last night she had lain awake, replaying the fire and Élisabeth’s breath against her cheek. How long had she stared at the dark before her body finally gave out? She couldn't remember.

She blinked at the ceiling, orienting herself. For a few seconds she lay still. Her ankle throbbed when she shifted, and the scrape on her palm tightened under the bandage. She scrubbed a hand over her face and caught the wrap against her cheek.

She lowered her hand and checked it. The white dressing around her palm was creased from the night. Then she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

The moment her left foot touched the floor, her ankle protested sharply. She caught herself on the mattress and held still until the pain settled. Only then did she look at the clock. Half past eight.

It was later than she liked. The house had gone quiet after the night before, but her body had not caught up. Every movement reminded her of the sprint across the lawn, and the panic that still lingered in her chest.

Carefully, she crossed to the bathroom at a measured pace, one hand brushing the wall for balance. The ankle held, though it complained.

The sight in the mirror stopped her for a second. Her hair had flattened in her sleep and stuck up at one temple. A crease from the bandage marked one cheek. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes she hadn't noticed yesterday.

She turned on the shower and, while the water warmed, peeled the dressing from her palm. The adhesive tugged at the raw skin, and she breathed in through her nose until the sting passed. Under the gauze the scrape looked angry and pink, the skin around it tender. It had not bled much, but it had opened enough to sting when she flexed her fingers.

The ankle was worse than she thought, sore in a way that said she had pushed it too hard and paid for it overnight. She loosened the wrap and checked the swelling. There would be bruising by evening.

She let the shower run hot until the room filled with steam.

She tipped her head forward and let the water run through her hair, down her face, over her chest, and for a few seconds she could almost pretend the ache in her ankle was the worst thing she had to deal with.

Rafaela shut her eyes under the water and put both hands against the tile.

Élisabeth had been in her arms long enough for the house, the alarm, and the tremors to fall away.

Élisabeth’s fingers in her hair. Her voice saying her name. The small, unbearable softness of being asked to look at her. Rafaela had not wanted to. That was the honest truth. The trouble was, Élisabeth had asked.

Even now, thinking of it, the back of her neck prickled with embarrassment.

Hot water ran over the back of her neck, carrying the memory of Élisabeth’s fingers.

The faint smell of woodsmoke from the drawing room fire still clung to her hair. Rafaela closed her eyes and let the water wash the soreness from her body.

Julien sat on the low table in front of her and pressed a clean dressing over the raw skin of her hand, taping it down. Then he moved to her injured ankle. He wrapped it faster than the joint needed, brisk in the way of someone who badly wanted to be somewhere else.

He packed the last roll of gauze into the kit and clicked it shut.

"Do me a favour and put some ice on it before bed."

Rafaela rolled her eyes. "Yes, doctor."

He hesitated, seemed to think better of whatever had almost come out of his mouth, then picked up the kit.

"Goodnight."

Rafaela and Élisabeth sat alone. The fire crackled in the hearth. She was aware of every point of contact: the heat of Élisabeth's skin, the pressure of her fingers, the way her hand fit as if it had always been there. She found herself turning Élisabeth's hand over, her thumb tracing the lines of her palm, and the soft skin between her fingers.

She could feel the fine bones beneath the skin, the callus on Élisabeth’s index finger, and her own pulse beating too fast in her throat.

"What a day," Élisabeth said quietly.

Rafaela let out a slow breath. "That's one way of putting it."

"To think it was all a deer."

"Do you think Samira would believe it?"

Élisabeth turned her head. Rafaela felt the weight of her gaze. "No. She'd probably say we made it up."

Rafaela laughed, despite herself. The tension she'd carried since the garden eased, if only for a heartbeat.

She dropped her gaze to their joined hands. Only a few hours ago she'd been sure she was going to lose Élisabeth. The warmth of Élisabeth's hand made that fear feel impossibly far away.

She lifted her eyes and found Élisabeth watching her, firelight turning the green in her eyes almost molten. It unsettled her more than the alarm or the sprint across the lawn ever had.

Heat rose in her chest. She pulled her hand back. "You should get some rest," her voice came out rougher than she intended. "It's late."

Élisabeth watched her for a second. A wry smile flickered across her face. "All right."

Rafaela stood before she could think too hard about staying.

The corridor was dim, lit low by sconces that threw amber pools across the floorboards. Rafaela pushed the wheelchair through the house, neither of them talking. Every small sound sharper, the soft roll of the chair, the faint drag of Rafaela’s feet on the wood where her ankle was still tight.

Élisabeth sat back in the chair with her eyes closed, her head tilted against the rest, and Rafaela slowed down without meaning to, in no hurry to reach the end of the hallway.

Inside Élisabeth's bedroom, Rafaela crossed to the bed and turned down the blanket with careful hands. The room smelled faintly of clean linen and the wood polish Beatrice used on the furniture. The lamp on the bedside table cast a small gold circle over the coverlet. Everything in the room was neat, contained, sensible. None of it matched the feeling inside Rafaela’s body.

She helped Élisabeth into bed, and reached for the blanket, tucking it around her. Her fingers brushed the bare skin above Élisabeth’s collar as she drew the blanket higher. The contact was light enough to be accidental, but heat shot up her arm. Élisabeth drew a small, uneven breath.

Rafaela went still, aware of nothing but the narrow space left between them.

She couldn't look away. Élisabeth's eyes held hers, dark in the lamplight, asking something neither of them had said out loud.

Élisabeth’s hand came up and brushed Rafaela’s cheek, fingertips lingering at the edge of her jaw. Rafaela stopped breathing properly.

Her eyes dropped to Élisabeth’s mouth before she could stop them. She couldn't help it. Her lips were slightly parted, her breath warm against Rafaela's cheek. She was too close. Élisabeth watched her, as if waiting to see what Rafaela would do

She should have stepped back then. She didn't.

Élisabeth closed the remaining space between them. Her cheek brushed Rafaela’s, and she had to stop herself from leaning in. Warm and soft, Élisabeth’s skin carried the dampness of her breath near the corner of Rafaela’s mouth. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Every nerve strained toward Élisabeth.

"Élisabeth," Rafaela said, and her voice came out rough. "We can’t."

Élisabeth's hand slipped to the nape of her neck. Her fingertips disappeared into the fine hairs there, and Rafaela had to bite back a shiver.

"Why not?" Élisabeth breathed against her mouth.

Rafaela swallowed. Élisabeth's fingers moved slowly, and it was too much. Every sensible thought she'd had a minute ago seemed to have slipped clean out of her grasp.

Élisabeth's lips were so close. She could feel the shape of the words against her mouth. Every instinct she trusted was telling her to step back. She needed space to think.

"I can’t."

The words cost her. She pulled back with visible effort, her mouth still tingling from how close it had been.

Élisabeth’s expression closed. Her grip eased at the back of Rafaela's neck, and the loss of contact left her cold. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"No. It's fine" Rafaela said at once, because she could not bear the look on her face. "There's nothing to apologize for."

It was not fine. It was far from fine. The flush in her face told her that much. So did the way her fingers had gone numb around the edge of the blanket.

Élisabeth held her eyes for a long moment, and Rafaela could see the hurt gather there before she tucked it away. She felt an ugly twist, low in her stomach. Then she turned onto her uninjured side and drew the blanket higher around herself.

Rafaela heard it for what it was and felt a flash of anger move through her, not at Élisabeth, but at herself.

She nodded, because if she did not move now, she might stay. And if she stayed, she might do something stupid. She reached for the lamp, hesitated, then left it on low instead. Élisabeth was already easing herself under the blanket. Her hair had slipped forward across her shoulder, and the sight of it nearly undid Rafaela all over again.

"Goodnight, Élisabeth."

She stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her with care.

"Idiot, idiot, idiot," she whispered to the empty hallway. For a few seconds she stood there, one hand on the knob. She had done what she was supposed to do when all she'd wanted was to stay exactly where she was. Why did it feel so much like failure?

She took the next few steps to her room. Her ankle was throbbing hard now, with nothing left to hide behind. She dropped onto the bed, too tired for the blankets and too hot to sleep

Rafaela opened her eyes and stared at the shower wall while the water ran over her shoulders.

She dragged shampoo through her hair and rinsed it out quickly.

When she finished, she stepped out into the steam and dried off slowly. The towel was rough against her skin. Getting the compression wrap back around her own ankle one-handed took three attempts and more patience than she had available that morning, and by the third try she was muttering under her breath. She got it done eventually. Not as neat as Julien would have made it, and that was good enough.

By the time she made it to the kitchen, Julien was already there with coffee and a plate he had clearly expected to eat in peace.

"Nice of you to join us," he said.

Rafaela took the chair across from him and lowered herself into it with care. "You’re not funny."

Julien watched the careful way she settled her left foot before reaching for his coffee.

"How's the ankle?"

"Still attached."

"Did you ice it?"

"Yes."

"You say that like you want me to stop asking."

Rafaela glared at him over the rim of the coffee cup Beatrice had just set in front of her. "I do."

Beatrice gave her a look that said she did not believe her for a second. "Did you, really?"

Rafaela set her cup down. "Why is everyone suddenly invested in my ankle?"

Julien leaned forward and glanced under the table. "Because it's swollen."

Rafaela followed his glance, then deliberately picked up her coffee again.

"I'll look at it after breakfast," Julien said.

Rafaela gave a small, noncommittal hum and reached for her toast. "Has she been down yet?"

Julien finished chewing, wiped his fingers, and shook his head. "Not yet. I heard her up early, though."

"Did you talk last night?" Beatrice asked.

Rafaela nearly choked on a piece of toast. "What?"

"You and Èlise." Beatrice asked, reaching for the plate of sliced oranges. "Everything all right between you two now?"

Rafaela didn't answer. She considered the question, then pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and shrugged.

Julien rolled his eyes. "Honestly, the two of you could complicate boiling water."

A retort was halfway up Rafaela's throat when she heard the slow drag of a wheelchair down the hallway.

Rafaela’s first instinct was to stand. Her second was to stay where she was. The ankle settled the matter for her by making a disagreeable comment when she shifted.

Élisabeth wheeled herself into the kitchen, greeted Beatrice and Julien, and sat at the far end of the table. She was wearing her hair down, loose over one shoulder. A few strands curved against the pale skin of her neck, and Rafaela had the absurd urge to reach out and brush them back herself. She glanced away before the heat in her face could betray her.

"Good morning," Rafaela said.

"Morning."

Rafaela wanted to ask after last night, whether she had slept at all, but she did not trust herself to start that conversation at the table. Better to let the morning stay ordinary a little longer.

Julien's curiosity was obvious, but he chose not to comment, which was probably the kindest thing he had done all day.

Beatrice set out the final plate, sat down beside Élisabeth, and began to eat. The room fell into a hush that felt too deliberate to ignore. Rafaela made herself take another bite.

It should have been easy to act normally. It was breakfast. That was all. They had all survived the night. The house was still standing. The kitchen smelled like butter and coffee. Nothing in the room said anything had changed. Rafaela wished her own body would believe it.

"So," Julien said. "Anyone sleep well?"

Beatrice nudged his knee beneath the table. "Don’t start."

"What?" Julien asked. "I’m simply being nice."

"No, you're not," Beatrice said.

This was enough to draw a smile from Élisabeth, and it landed in Rafaela's chest with an irritating thud. She focused on her plate as if the toast had suddenly become more interesting.

It was easier to look at Élisabeth when she was smiling. And harder. There was nothing in the expression to shield against. Nothing to keep at arm’s length. It made Rafaela feel, very briefly, as if the room had shifted beneath her feet.

The shrill ring of the hallway landline cut through the morning conversation. Rafaela was already pushing back her chair, grateful for the excuse to leave the table. She reached the receiver on the second ring and lifted it to her ear.

"Costa."

Morel's voice came down the line, familiar and unhurried. "It's Morel. I need you to bring Dr. Moreau to headquarters."

Rafaela's grip tightened on the receiver. "Why? What's happened?"

"Nothing new. But we've pulled together a collection of CCTV images from the train stations and the streets around her apartment in the weeks before the bomb. We've narrowed it down to several women in red coats. We need her to look through them and tell us if any of them are the woman who was following her."

From the doorway, she could see Élisabeth laughing quietly with Julien.

"When?"

"This afternoon. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't urgent, but we're closing in on something. The sooner she can identify the woman, the sooner we can move."

Rafaela closed her eyes. "We’ll be there but we’re going to need adequate security and if necessary, a diversion."

"Of course. I’ll have a team ready for you."

"Thank you."

She hung up and stood for a moment, her hand on the receiver. Then she straightened her shoulders and went back to the kitchen.

Julien was the first to speak. "That sounded cheerful."

Rafaela turned and regarded Élisabeth. "That was Morel. He wants us to come in."

Beatrice glanced toward the doorway. "Now?"

"This afternoon."

Élisabeth set down her fork with a clink. "All right."

Julien leaned back in his chair and sighed. "There goes today's quiet morning."

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