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He wakes at midnight.
There is a church-tower clock nearby, and it tolls full-throated. Esther has grown used to it, but it is startling, if one is not familiar with its rhythms.
“Jesus,” he whispers, before he is full himself again. That is an oath, for him, but Esther smiles at it. He sounds like a full-blooded Irishman when he swears. “How long—”
“Two hours,” she says. “By the clock and my stitches.”
He drops his head forward, into his hands, and then tilts his face up a little to peer at her teasingly through his fingers.
“I thought,” he says, “that it might be morning.”
Esther averts her gaze. The chemise, which was in pieces when the night began, is half-finished. “I would not let you stay until the morning, Mae.”
He yawns expansively against the back of his hand, then throws himself back on her narrow bed. She is in the chair beside it, with one slipper resting against the footboard—an absent gesture, and one that she allowed herself so as to better position her pattern pieces.
She knows that, despite her words, she has come very close to doing wrong.
What would Mrs. Woolcott think?
Maedhros has thrown his coat aside—he always does when he comes visiting, to tempt her with his pretty buttons and the smooth-nipped lines of his waistcoat. All for your hands, his eyes suggest. At present, his finery is crushed from his nap. His hair, he sets to rights with his fingers.
Esther’s fingers keep relentlessly to their work. It is a dangerous hour.
“If I were to marry you,” he says, in that light voice that makes it impossible to tell if he speaks in jest, “We should have every morning to marvel at. Each one a rose.”
“Winter mornings are not so,” she says. She wishes she did not notice his shaking hands, his stiff shoulders.
The bell may have jolted him from his slumber, but it does not account for his unease.
She knows he comes here to rest. It is a tender, silent profession of trust.
Lest she be vain, she knows that she is not enough to quell his nightmares.
“Ah, you are right,” he says. “But I should like those February mornings with you, too.”
“You should go home, liebling,” she says. She puts the mending down. “Maglor will miss you.”
(She has only seen Maglor in passing, two or three times. Still, she does not think that Maedhros hides her out of shame. She hopes—)
“Maglor will not expect me yet.” But he rises, and reaches for his coat.
Unable to resist any longer, she bounds up, taking his slim hand in hers.
“What do you dream of?”
“Oh, lord.” He sighs. “Was I twitching like a lapdog?”
His hand, if she presses it tightly enough, goes still. His other arm encircles her. This is his vengeance; he holds all of her close.
“You are afraid of something.” Esther murmurs, her lips against his rumpled shirtfront. “What is it?”
He never tells her.