MATTEOShe’s sitting exactly where I expect to find her when I finally let myself go up — on the edge of the bed, spine straight, watching the door like she’s been counting the seconds since it last opened.The tray Isolde left is untouched on the table by the window, and I notice it the way I notice most things about this room now, cataloguing details I have no real right to be cataloguing about a woman who was pointing a gun at my head a few hours ago. Her hair has dried in loose waves she clearly hasn’t bothered to fix. There’s a shallow scrape along one knuckle I don’t remember seeing in the study, something she must have picked up scaling the eastern wall, and some part of me wants, absurdly, to ask if it hurts.“You came back,” she says, and there’s something careful in it, like she hasn’t decided yet whether that’s good news.“I told you I would.” I set the ledger down on the small table between us, thick, leather-bound, the pages inside marked with nine years of a family’s wor
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